


Of Two Friends Against The World

by FourCornersHolmes



Series: The Assorted & Collected Misadventures of John H. Watson, RAMC, MD [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, British Military, Character Turned Into Vampire, Covering My Bases, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Handcuffs, I think?, I'm Sorry, Implied Addiction, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied Drug Use, Implied Sexual Content, Johncroft - Freeform, Johnlock-Freeform, Johnovan - Freeform, Johnstrade - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Mild Sexual Content, Military Background, Military Ranks, Military Training, Military Uniforms, Multi, Mystrade - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Addiction, Polyamory, Polyfidelity, References to Addiction, Scotland Yard, Sexual Content, Temporary Character Death, Vampire!John, implied alcohol abuse, implied alcoholism, vampire!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 11:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8370133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: Starts pre-Series 1, but catches up to the action fairly quickly. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Childhood friends, best friends, destined lovers, crime-solving crack-team, Army mates. Yes, you read that right: Army mates. Sherlock joins John in the British Army as an alternative to rehab and criminal drug-charges after he's pulled from a flop-house by Greg Lestrade during a NSY drugs-bust in Central London. Mycroft is a good big brother and The British Government. Greg is established, patient, and doesn't get paid enough to put up with the boys. Molly is a sweetheart and a force to be reckoned with. Sally is a BAMF who’s been dating John since forever and doesn’t hate Sherlock. Sherlock is clever, moody, and sweet. John is observant, clever, and sweet...until you touch what is his. We don’t talk about Anderson, he’s a creepy-stalker prick who tries to woo John’s girl while he’s off serving Queen and Country, and fails because Sally knows her true loyalties. Or Jim Moriarty. He’ll come up, but he won’t get what he wants out of the boys. Mention of past bad parenting/abusive parenting and drug-use. This turned into a Vampire-AU, which is going to change the way a lot of canon events happen. Not Brit-picked or beta'd.





	1. Point of Origin

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Save Me or Let Me Drown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4826171) by [GubraithianFire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GubraithianFire/pseuds/GubraithianFire). 



> This is my first time posting a story to AO3, please be gentle! I fell in love with the Sherlock fandom, and I am proud to consider myself a Holmseian/Sherlockian as I follow both original ACD-canon AND BBC's beautiful heartbreaking work of genius. Here's my take on a stubborn little what-if in my head that's taken on a life of it's own! Tags will be added as necessary, but I think I've got my bases covered. So here's my offering of my favorite boys doing what they do best. Sherlock might be a bit OOC, but he's been a little strange in my head recently, so I think that's what came out. Partially inspired by the lovely GubraithianFire's heartbreaking work Save Me or Let Me Drown, which you should go read. Just trust me on this one.
> 
> I figure, Greg's in his thirties (if you account for Mycroft being seven years older than Sherlock, Greg is very likely not much older than Mycroft) in the first chapter, still pretty young by any standards, so I imagine his vocabulary might not be sparkling. Also, he's a cop, he's worked the streets, so he's gonna be a little rough around the edges working Homicide.
> 
> Italics = phone conversation  
> Bold = text messaging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Gregory Lestrade’s desk-phone rang on the afternoon of 16 November, 2001, he barely glanced at the id-screen before he answered. He almost never checked his screen before he answered, it was usually someone he needed to talk to and never someone who might otherwise call on his mobile, so when he answered, he wasn’t thinking at all of his boyfriend.

* * *

When Gregory Lestrade's desk-phone rang on the afternoon of 16 November 2001, he barely glanced at the id-screen before he answered. He almost never checked his screen before he answered, it was usually someone he needed to talk to and _never_ someone who might otherwise call on his mobile, so when he answered, he wasn't thinking at all of his boyfriend.

_New Scotland Yard Major Crimes, Greg Lestrade.”_  He answered mechanically, hoping to god it was a quick call. There was a pause on the other end and he groaned.

_“Greg_ _ory_ _.”_ He knew that voice, knew it well as he knew his own. Shit. He sat up, no longer tired.

_“Mycroft?”_ He checked around for eavesdroppers, double-checked his id-screen, _“Shit. What's wrong?”_ Mycroft Holmes _never_ called his desk-phone, hell, he almost never called while Greg was at work.

_“Are you busy?”_

_“Not...exactly. You never call this number, what's up?”_

_“It's Sherlock.”_ Two words Greg had seriously hoped he would never hear from his boyfriend. They'd been friends since childhood, kept in touch through university, parted ways for a bit while they worked out their lives, and hooked up again about a year ago. They kept it quiet, their jobs would suffer if they came out openly about their relationship.

_“What happened, Myc?”_

_“He hasn't been home in three weeks. He's...gone.”_

_“There's not a chance he would have jumped a flight to the States or elsewhere, is there? France or Spain, maybe?”_ Mycroft's little brother, younger by seven years, was flighty, impulsive, rude, and a fucking genius. 

_“I'm not sure, I wouldn't put it past him. You know I wouldn’t ask if I thought I could handle this myself.”_

_“I'm already on it, Myc.”_ He opened an inter-office messaging window on his computer and pulled up one of his OCU-AP contacts, cradling the phone against his cheek and shoulder as he typed out a message to Susan Brealy, who worked in that division and was a good friend to him.  _“Did he leave a note or anything?”_

 

 

**Susan, sorry to bother you. Please be in your office. It's an emergency. – GLestrade**

 

 

_“I stopped by his flat on Montague Street, but he wasn't there and the landlord was less than helpful. And he hasn't been to Baker Street in almost a week.”_

“Damn it, Sherlock!” Greg muttered, watching the messaging-window. Sherlock wouldn't have been at the Montague Street flat anyway, not without good reason. It was his absence from the Baker Street house that worried him more. Maybe he'd stop by when he had a chance and ask Martha Hudson if she'd seen her troubled tenant, or even risk going after Sherlock's long-time flat-mate for information. If anyone in the city would know where Sherlock might have gone, or have some idea, it was going to be John Watson. If he was around, that was. His messenger pinged. Susan had responded, so he turned to  _that_ conversation.

 

**I'm here. Just stepped in. What's the matter? – SBrealy**

 

**Can you put the word out, get a BOLO out to your guys at Heathrow and London City to keep an eye out for somebody? Or ask if they've seen him? – GLestrade**

 

**Missing persons isn't your division, Greg. What's wrong? – SBrealy**

 

**It's...Sherlock Holmes. He's been missing for three weeks. I want to make sure he hasn't ghosted. – GLestrade**

 

**Holmes? Sure. Got a description of him? – SBrealy**

 

 

“God bless you, Susan.” He muttered, _“Mycroft?”_

_“Yes?”_

_“What was Sherlock wearing the last time you saw him?”_

_“When I caught sight of him on CCTV a week-and-a-half ago, he was in jeans and a leather jacket.”_

_“Sweatshirt?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Fine. Thanks. I'll get word to the Aviation Police, and then I'll hit the streets myself. Just stay where you are, alright?”_ He tapped out a new message to Susan with Sherlock's physical description and what he had been wearing the last time anyone had seen him.  _“If he's out there, he won't want to see you. Sherlock only disappears when he's in a fit. What happened?”_ His computer beeped at him and he saw that Susan had sent a reply.

 

 

**We'll find Sherlock Holmes, Greg. You tell Mycroft not to worry his pretty head. AP knows our business. If Sherlock slipped our nets, we'll track him, we have our ways. If he hasn't tried yet, we'll snag him. Have you tried sounding the streets? – SBrealy**

 

**That's my next call. If I'm lucky, I won't get a bust. Damn! – GLestrade**

 

**Breathe, Greg. – SBrealy**

 

 

He could see Susan laughing at her desk, not at him, but at the situations he got himself into being involved with the Holmes brothers.

_“Father said something about university.”_ He heard Mycroft and returned his focus to the primary conversation that had spurred his message-thread with Sergeant Brealy.

“I thought Sherlock was doing well in his classes?”

_“When he's not high? He's a genius. He refuses to bother with “plebeian, inferior minds”, and almost got himself kicked out of school for harassing teachers. If he surfaces, he'll walk for graduation. I made him promise me he would at least do that much.”_

“Jesus Christ.” Greg put his head down against the desk, “Am I a bad person for hating your brother sometimes?”

_“No, that makes you human. My brother is a very, highly unlikable person, even when he's sober and worse when he's high.”_ Mycroft sounded tired, sad, and Greg wondered if he'd cried at all. Suddenly, Greg saw a flash of motion at the top of his vision and looked up.

“Hang on, Myc.” He turned the phone so the conversation would be muffled as he gave his attention to Jackie Moses, his immediate boss. “Sorry, Jackie. What's up?”

“You need to go, you've got another one.”

“Are you  _serious_?” He groaned, “Where?”

“Cotton Row.”

“Jesus.” He signed off with Susan, who promised to keep him informed and asked that he do the same just in case he found Sherlock Holmes before OCU-AP did. 

_“Mycroft? Sorry, I have to go.”_

_“You know what to do if you find Sherlock.”_ Mycroft said softly,  _“Please, please find my brother.”_

_“I will, I promise. If I have to book a ticket to New Mexico, I'll find Sherlock.”_   He hung up, already on his feet and shrugging into his jacket. Grabbing his radio and mobile, he yanked open his desk-drawer to grab his Glock, he wasn't going into a bust without the thing. Shoving it into the holster, he nodded at Jackie.

“Domestic troubles at home?”

“You could say that.” He zipped up the hi-vis jacket, “Kind of got a missing-persons case on my hands. It would be a mix of really good luck and really,  _really_ bad luck if I found him on this bust.”

“Who's missing?”

“Sherlock Holmes hasn't been home or in contact with his family in three weeks. His brother saw him on CCTV about a week-and-a-half ago, but that was the last time. No idea where he is now.”

“Christ, Greg.”

“Tell me about it.” He rolled his eyes.

“Did you ping AP?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Greg headed for the door, Jackie at his side. She had been on him since he'd been promoted to Sergeant, and before when he'd been a constable. Normally he drove with a constable, but today he drove with Jackie. While they headed for the bust, followed by three other cars, he filled Jackie in on the current situation with Sherlock and they traded ideas on what might have set him off like that.

-&-

When they arrived at the location, Greg stared out at the doss-house, wondering how many people were in it at the moment. Intel said anywhere from six to twenty people could be inside. Dealers, users, buyers.

“Shit. Will three cars be enough? If there's twenty people in there, this isn't going to be clean or easy.” Without really thinking about it, he called for backup over the radio and they waited another ten minutes for a few more cars and a prisoner-transport van. Better safe than sorry. Getting into the house was easy, they took the place by storm, and startled well over twelve people. He collared one kid, not even eighteen by the looks of him, and spun him around. Pushing him against the wall, he got the kid's full, fractured focus, “I'm looking for someone.”

“W-what?!”

“I. Am.  _Looking_. For someone.” He showed a printout photograph of Sherlock Holmes, “Is this boy here right now?”

“Th-shit, that's Shezza! He's upstairs, man.” The kid was shaking, higher than a kite and freaked out. Probably hallucinating, if Greg had to guess. He held the kid still and looked him over, flashing a pen-light torch in his eyes, measuring dilation of pupils and the racing pulse against his fingers.

“What did you take, kid?”

“X. Crack.”

“You...what! You mixed Ecstasy with cocaine?” This kid would die if Greg let him go. “How much?”

“Dunno, whatever they gave me.”

“Who dealt you?”

“Ginger.”

“Fuck. That smug bastard!” Greg grabbed his radio, holding the teenager up with one arm and a knee between the kid's legs as he leaned him against the wall, “This is Lestrade, I need someone to find Ginger and hold her. I need to know what she gave one of the users. What's your name?” He looked at his charge, who was about to OD in his arms, “Kid, your name!”

“Rocky.”

“Find out what Ginger gave Rocky and get back to me! I'm going up for Holmes!” He belted his radio, slung a limp arm around his shoulders, and hauled Rocky upstairs. “Stay with me, Rocky, oh god don't do this. Where is Shezza?”

“Room at...th-the...back...house.”

“That's it, Ginger is going away for the rest of her short life,” Greg grunted, pulled off-balance halfway up the stairs when Rocky suddenly collapsed. “Shit.” Heaving the kid over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, Greg got to the top of the stairs, laid Rocky against the wall in a sitting position, begged him to hold on, and ran to the back room at the end of the hallway, kicking the door in. The room was littered was dirty mattresses, most of them occupied. 

“Everybody get out! Now!” he yelled, sent six people running like rats. “Leave Rocky or I will break you like sticks, hear me?” he snarled, knowing that panicked users and dealers would try to take Rocky with them. When the room cleared, the only one left was Sherlock Holmes, who had passed out on his mattress, wearing the same clothes Mycroft had seen him in last. Cursing his bad luck, Greg pressed two fingers to Sherlock's wrist. Maybe the kid was just sleeping, his pulse was steady. Greg shook the troubled genius by the shoulder.

“Sherlock. Holmes.” He whispered, getting no response. “Shezza, man, wake up.” Nothing. Hating himself for what he was about to do, he leaned back and slapped Sherlock hard enough to leave a mark. It had the desired effect of snapping Sherlock out of his stupor and Greg jumped back, on his feet in a flash and his Glock held out to ward off the half-drugged man at his feet. “Take it easy, Sherlock. I'm not here to hurt you.”

“Hell of a way to treat a guy!” Sherlock snarled, spitting on the ground, “What the hell, Greg!”

“Sure picked a hell of a time to remember my name.” He growled, “I wasn't looking for you when I showed up here.”

“Wh-where's Myc?” Sherlock staggered to his feet, and almost did a face-plant. Greg holstered his gun and caught Sherlock in the same motion.

“Fucking Christ, Sherlock!” He got under the kid's shoulder, “Mycroft is  _not_ here, if that's any comfort to you. He did call me, but I thought you'd jumped a flight somewhere.”

“Thought 'bout it.”

“What did you take, Sherlock?” He huffed as he got Sherlock out of the room. Down the hall at the stairs, he could see Rocky. “You're not high right now.”

“Nope.” He popped the second syllable, a funny and endearing habit of his, “Was yesterday. Didn't sleep for six days, you know.”

“You've been off-radar for three weeks, but Mycroft still tracked you on CCTV, you weren't trying hard enough.”

“Didn't...uh, want to...disappear?” Sherlock shook his head, looking down at Rocky, who had passed out, “Fuck, that's Rocky!”

“I know. Can you stand by yourself?” He leaned Sherlock against the wall and dropped to his knees before the teenager, “I caught him OD'ing on X and cocaine. Rocky?” He shook the kid, got no response. His pulse was weak and he wasn't breathing. Cursing under his breath, he picked Rocky up in a fireman's carry, over his shoulders again, and looked at Sherlock, “I can't carry both of you, please tell me you can walk.”

“Can I...hold on?”

“Yeah, yeah you can hold on, but for God's sake don't push me.” He made his way very,  _very_ carefully down the stairs and somehow got down without hurting himself, Rocky, or Sherlock. When he staggered out of the house, he almost missed a step-down and would have hurt all three of them if Sherlock hadn't somehow managed to catch him.

“Careful,” Sherlock muttered. He got as far as the waiting ambulance, rolled Rocky onto a stretcher, and told the medics what he knew. Suddenly, Sherlock collapsed against him and almost went down.

“Shit! Sherlock, hold it!” He spun on his heel and caught Sherlock before he fell, “Oh, fuck, you mad bastard!” They got Sherlock onto a stretcher and he leaned over the troubled genius junkie, taking hold of Sherlock's hand, “If you lied to me in that house, Sherlock Holmes, I will make it look like an accident. What did you take?”

“Cocaine.”

“Of course you did! Christ.” He tugged on his hair in annoyance, “I don't get paid enough to put up with this shit!” Shaking his head, he had the medics take Sherlock and Rocky to hospital, “Find out what else is in his system, I'll be along once I've finished up.”

“Right then, Sergeant.” The drivers just smiled knowingly and told him where to find his two strung-out charges. Ruffling his hair, Greg dug for his mobile and looked over at Moses.

“Gotta make a call, Jackie, sorry.”

“Scene's not going anywhere.” His boss just smiled at him, “I got the drug-list for Richard Lockley to the medics, they'll handle him.”

“Oh, that's his name?” Greg raised an eyebrow as he dialled a number, “Thanks, Jackie.” He waited for the call to ring out. It rang once.

_“Gregory?”_

_“Found him, Myc.”_ He turned his back on the scene and dropped his voice, _“Listen, he's in a bad way, him and another kid I pulled out of there. Sixteen people, Mycroft, a lot of young ones this time.”_

_“Where did they take him?”_

_“University College London Hospital. I hope you have a better option than rehab this time, or we'll be right back at square one.”_

_“I think I have something. Thank you so much, Greg.”_

_“Mycroft, please, we're practically family by now.”_ He kicked at the gravel and kept an eye on the scene behind him, _“I'm just counting my lucky stars I didn't find Sherlock OD'ing this time.”_

_“What about the other one?”_

_“Uh, name's Richard Lockley, he's probably seventeen or eighteen. Way too young. OD'd on Ecstasy and cocaine, I'm keeping my fingers crossed.”_

_“Who dealt him?”_

_“Ginger? I'll put her away for life if I get the chance.”_ Greg paced irritably, _“Listen, I've gotta go, Myc. I've gotta clear the scene and get up to UCLH to check on the kids.”_

_“Thank you so much, Greg. I'll see what I can find on Richard Lockley for you.”_

_“Thanks, Myc. I'll be in touch.”_ He hung up and pocketed his phone, going to finish clearing the scene. He questioned the dealers, tore Gabrielle Hereford to pieces for knowingly endangering a minor, and asked for Sherlock's dealer. Every one of them pointed him back to Ginger, and he clenched his teeth as he snapped his hand-cuffs around her wrists and shoved her into the backseat of his squad-car, “I have had  _enough_ of your bullshit, Ginger, and no amount of sweet-talking or threatening me is going to get you out of trouble this time.”

“You know you can't touch me, Sergeant Lestrade.” The cocky twenty-five-year-old just grinned at him, all he wanted to do was throttle her, “I have connections, you know.”

“Guess what, sweetheart,” he leaned into the car, getting into her space, “so do I.” He raised an eyebrow, “Probably better connections than yours anyway, but I'm not bragging.” Stepping back, he took a minute to appreciate the expression on GInger's face before he slammed the door on her and walked around his car.

“You can be downright cruel, you know.” Moses said smugly as he passed her before sliding into the passenger seat, “What's your next move?”

“Book Ginger and make a few more phone-calls before I head over to UCLH to visit Sherlock and Rocky.” He buckled up, glanced in the rearview to check on Ginger, and started the car.

“Good with me.” Moses patted him on the arm as he put the car in gear and set off for New Scotland Yard. It was a quiet drive if you didn't count the bellyaching Ginger was doing, threatening their jobs, posturing about her connections, how she would make bail by nightfall and be out before they got home for dinner. Oh wait, they weren't going to, were they? They had “weirdo jobs” anyway. Greg didn't know if it was the lack of sleep in the last seventy-two hours, he'd gotten maybe a grand total of twelve hours, hearing from Mycroft that Sherlock had been off-radar for three weeks only to pick him up at his last bust, or the fact that he had pulled an eighteen-year-old kid out of a doss-house high on Ecstasy and cocaine, and it wasn't even the good-quality stuff, so bad he'd gone into OD while Greg had been holding him, but Ginger was really getting on his nerves.

-&-

By the time they reached The Yard, he was tearing his hair out. Taking pity on him, Moses offered to book in Ginger to let him make those phone-calls and collect himself for a bit before he went to the hospital. Dumping his coat, he set aside his radio and picked up his desk-phone. Time to call Melissa Hereford. As he waited for the call to ring out, he pulled up the messaging window from his earlier conversation with Susan Brealy.

 

 

**Sue. I'm back. Bloody fucking hell. – GLestrade**

 

**You found Sherlock Holmes, I take it? – SBrealy**

 

**Thank God. Found the bugger high on cocaine, but I'll take that over the last few times I've pulled him from a drug-den. – GLestrade**

 

**What's on your mind? – SBrealy**

 

 

How could she  _do_ that? Shaking his head, he ruffled his pockets for a cigarette.

_“Melissa Hereford's office, this is Charlene speaking, how may I direct your call?”_ A pleasant voice sounded in his ear and he sat up a bit straighter.

_“Afternoon, Charlene.”_ He grinned, _“It's Greg Lestrade over at Scotland Yard. Is Melissa in?”_

_“Oh! Greg! Hi! Yes, she's in right now! We haven't heard from you in a while, is everything okay?”_  Funny how a phone-call could change someone's day. He just wished he had good news. He grimaced as he came up with a nearly-empty pack of cigarettes. Damn. Shaking one out, he fished in a drawer for a lighter, he usually kept two or three. Habit, Sherlock swiped them when he wasn't looking, like he swiped Greg's badges. Bloody git, he still loved the kid. Actually, he wasn't sure if Sherlock was his pickpocket or if John was. The kids were both bad about stealing his cigarettes, and he let them.

_“Yeah, it's been one of those days. Y'know.”_ He shrugged as he found one, _“I gotta talk to Melissa real quick, if she's busy I can call back, but this is kind of important.”_

_“Oh, sure! Just a minute!”_

_“You're a doll, Charlene.”_ He sighed, pushing his chair back enough to prop his feet on the desk. He wasn't supposed to do that, but he really didn't care at the moment. It was quiet for approximately a minute before the line clicked over again.

_“This is Melissa Hereford.”_

_“Mel, hi, it's Greg.”_ He braced himself for an awkward conversation. _“I hope I'm not interrupting anything?”_

_“Oh, good heavens, no! You almost never call, so this must be important.”_ He could just see the smile, and groaned,  _“To what do I owe the pleasure of your voice this afternoon, Sergeant?”_

_“We picked up Gabrielle on a bust just a bit ago. She invoked your name and a number of hot-air threats to my job and livelihood. I just thought you should know.”_

_“Oh Jesus_ fucking _Christ!”_ He sincerely hoped there was no one else in Melissa's office just at that moment.

_“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mel.”_ He rubbed his forehead, _“But I really wanted to get a jump on her before she called you. We booked her in, but everything is in your control now.”_

_“Did she_ hurt _anyone?”_ Melissa's voice was a frightening snarl, and Greg was  _so_ glad he wasn't in her office right now, giving her this news in person. He had considered it, but had decided it was just simpler to call and quite possibly  _safer_. His instincts had been correct. He  _really_ wanted to lie and tell her no, Gabrielle hadn't hurt anyone, but that would have been a huge lie. And he had to think about Sherlock and Rocky. He took a long draw of his cigarette, holding his breath for a minute.

_“How much would you hate me if I said yes?”_

_“Fucking hell. That damn fool!”_

_“Take it easy, Mel.”_ He cautioned, “I'm the wrong target. Yes, she hurt someone.”

_“Who?”_

_“A teenager, real young kid named Richard Lockley. He couldn't even tell me what he'd taken or how much, that's how bad it was. Poor kid could barely tell me his god damn name.”_

_“How young, Greg?”_

_“Seventeen? Maybe eighteen?”_

_“What did she give him?”_

_“Um, he told me it was...”_ he flipped through his notes, stalling for time, _“X and...coke. He was in real bad shape when I shipped him off to UCLH. I also had to send in Sherlock Holmes.”_

_“Oh, you found him! Thank god!”_

_“I take it Mycroft said something?”_

_“And Violet. Sweet thing came to me yesterday asking if I might have an idea.”_ Melissa sounded worn out now, and Greg felt bad for her,  _“I thought he might have tagged Ginger. I wish he would go clean.”_

_“You and a lot of other very worried people.”_ He took another draw, “ _So, I take it my job is safe for the time being and you're in absolutely no hurry to bail your daughter out of jail?”_

_“No. She can sit there as long as she needs to. She only comes to me when she needs something, so I'm going to teach her a lesson.”_ Melissa's voice was stronger and Greg nodded to himself.

_“Glad to hear it, Mel. Sorry I called with such bad news. We should try to catch lunch together some time.”_

_“That would be just lovely, Greg. I'll tell Mark and the kids you said hi. They miss you.”_

_“Yeah, I'm sorry. This job is going to kill me.”_ He cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder and ruffled his hair with one hand, _“Maybe Christmas? I'll try to make it up to them at Christmas.”_

_“Don't bankrupt yourself on account of family, Greg. We're certainly not worth it.”_

_“Oh, bullshit! Of course you're worth it!”_ He flicked ash from the end of the cigarette into the ashtray on his desk, a nice one from Sherlock a few years ago, _“You're some of the only family I've got left! I'll go flat broke spoiling those kids if I have to!” He thought of something, “After all, we might as well make sure they know what it's like to have family that really loves them, right?”_

_“Christ, how did we survive?”_

_“Because we had each other.”_ He smiled and kicked away from his desk to put his feet down, checking his messaging-window. He had been filling Susan in on things while he'd been talking to Melissa, essentially multi-tasking. Greg chuckled, he seemed to be  _very_ good at multi-tasking at work, even running on twelve hours of sleep. His mobile buzzed and he checked for new messages. It was Mycroft, he'd reached the hospital and had some information on Rocky for him. He nodded, tapping out a reply with his thumb. Suddenly, from clear across the other side of the bullpen, he heard a loud shriek and nearly fell out of his chair.

_“What happened?”_ Melissa had heard his flailing and cursing and he got up from his chair without killing himself.

_“Uh, hang on a second.”_ He looked over the top of his cubicle, searching for the source of that noise. Then he spotted them, three of them. Three, he remembered now, of...four? Five? Christ, what were they doing here?  _Why_ were they here? His first thought was for Harry, which would have just been the icing on the cake. _“Christ and Satan. Fuck.”_

_“Greg?”_

_“Sorry, love. Gotta go.”_ He waved, getting a nod when the eldest of the threesome coming his way saw him and registered his location, _“The Watsons just showed up.”_

_“It's not Harry, is it?”_

_“I don't see her, and there's...something about John that's got me a little worried. I'll be in touch! My love to the kiddos!”_

_“Remember, you promised them Christmas.”_

_“I'll do my best to keep it, Melissa. Cheers, love.”_ He hung up and bolted from his cubicle, intercepting three of the six Watson children. “John!”

“Hey, Greg. Sorry we didn't call.” Never let it be said John Watson was timid about anything. Quiet, unassuming, smart as a fucking whip, and humble, but not really  _timid_. He  _hated_ asking for help, but that was his stubborn pride and nothing else. John had shown up at New Scotland Yard with his youngest siblings in tow, in uniform. Greg hated to think what that meant, it left a sour taste in the back of his mouth. 

“A heads up would have been nice, but that doesn't mean I would have gotten the message.” Greg hauled the young man into a hug, careful of the child John was carrying on his hip, “Christ, I haven't seen you guys in ages. What's up?”

“We just got out from visiting Harry.”

“Oh, god, John.” Now he knew what they were doing here, “When did she get pulled in?”

“Last night. I only got around to it today. I told her I wasn't bailing her out, she could spend another night in the drunk-tank. She didn't like that.”

“Sure she didn't.” He sighed and looked at the two youngsters, “Well, come on then. Mariam and Christopher are in school, I take it?”

“Mm-hmm.” John shifted his hold on Darcy, who was all of six months old, “I  _really_ needed her to look after Darcy and Tris for me.”

“You found a replacement babysitter, I hope?”

“Mrs Hudson stepped up when I called this morning. I know I could have asked Violet and Siger, but they do too much already.”

“All you have to do is ask, John.” Greg smiled and picked up four-year-old Tristan Watson, “Hi, Tris.”

“Hi.” Tristan smiled shyly and put both arms tightly around Greg's neck. He sighed, wondering about the kids sometimes. He took the kids back to his cubicle and pulled a stack of craft-paper and a box of markers from the bottom drawer of his desk. At the age of twenty-four, John Watson was the second of six children, his sister Harriet was three years older at twenty-seven, followed by the twins Mariam and Christopher at sixteen, then Tristan at four, and Darcy was the youngest of the lot at six months. Stealing an empty interview-room, he settled the Watsons in and went in search of coffee. John followed him, leaving Darcy asleep on a pile of blankets on the floor while Tristan scribbled at the table.

“Tris, you be good, alright? I'll be right back.”

“Okay, John-non!” Tristan beamed at them, going back to his scribbling. As they walked away from the room, he saw Susan Brealy come around a corner. He jumped on the chance to let someone watch the youngsters so he could pull John for a one-on-one chat.

“Susan! Thank god!”

“Oh, hey, Greg.” Susan saw him coming and smiled, “I'm surprised you're not halfway to UCLH right now. What's the hold-up?”

“Something kind of came up.” He looked at John, who had the good grace to look bashful, “But Mycroft's already there, so things are under control. Listen, I need a favour?”

“What do I get out of it?”

“My eternal gratitude?”

“Don't look at me like that...” she trailed off when he gave her his best sad-puppy look. Rolling her eyes, she was about to say yes anyway when she realized that it was actually John standing next to him. “Oh. Shit. John Watson!”

“Hey, Sue.” John managed a smile for Susan, who circled him like a hawk before she dragged him into a rib-crushing hug, “It's...been a while.”

“Been a while! Bollocks! You need to stay in better touch with us!”

“Sorry about that.” John coughed.

“You brought the littles with you, right? Mariam and Chris are in school and Harry's...”

“Down in lock-up. Yeah. Can you look after Tris and Darcy for a bit? She's down for her nap, and Tris is drawing pictures. Just... _please_?” Like John would ever have to beg any of the women of New Scotland Yard for a babysitting favour. Greg was pretty sure he could ask Sally Donovan nicely and she'd say yes. In fact, come to think of it, Greg was fairly certain that Donovan  _had_ done some babysitting for the youngest Watsons in the past.

“Oh, don't you worry a thing, Johnny!” She cooed, patting him on the shoulder, ruffling his short hair, “And wherever they're sending you, you be careful and write home, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma'am.” John ducked his head, blushing, and made a face when Susan seized him and dragged him into a kiss on the cheek, “Ugh!”

“I am  _not_ sorry, young man! You be careful, understand? I don't need to hear from this one that something bad happened to you!” She jerked her head at Greg to emphasize her point.

“Understood.” John gave a brisk nod and as soon as the conference-room door had closed behind Susan, muffling the excited squeals as Tristan recognized her, he exhaled and seemed to deflate.

“Come on, kid. I'm getting you some coffee.”

“Thanks, Greg. God, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. So, where are they sending you?” He headed for the break-room, which was blessedly empty at the moment. “I mean, you finished school, then?”

“Yeah. I mean...yeah. I haven't decided what I want to do, but...the big part's behind me. The part the Army paid for. Maybe general surgery? Or, I don't know, pathology?”

“Yeah, I  _figured_ that. Jesus, son.” He fixed up one cup the way he knew John took his and then one for himself, “I never thought I'd actually see the day you got shipped out. How are the kids taking it?”

“Pretty well. I mean, they know I'm leaving, but...they're kind of used to me wearing the uniform around, so it's not a shock to them. I'm just...worried.”

“You've got a life-insurance policy, don't you?”

“I got one when I was twelve.” John took a gulp of coffee, “I heard Sherlock got into some trouble?”

“You could say that.” Greg leaned against the counter, “What  _is_ it about that kid?”

“Your guess is good as mine.” John swirled his cup, “Y'know, I talked to Mycroft when Sherlock went missing?”

“About what?”

“Said if he needed a structured program to knock sense and shape into that bastard genius brother of his, I had a few ideas.”

“What kind of ideas?” Greg narrowed his eyes, trying to imagine what they might have come up with that Sherlock would say yes to. John gestured at his fatigues, almost dismissively. Greg coughed, nearly choked, but got himself under control.

“Wait... _what_?!” He shook his head, “How?”

“I leave tomorrow morning.”

“Christ, John! How do you expect to get him to agree to it?”

“Because it's either join me in the Army in three months and a quarter, or involuntary rehab and criminal drug charges.” John shrugged, but Greg knew how important Sherlock's health was to John, “But the choice is his, I can't force him into anything.”

“What if he takes Option A?”

“Then God help us all.” John sighed, “It's bad. I love him, I really do, but I'm so  _sick_ of him doing this to himself. Was he OD'ing when you found him this afternoon?”

“No, actually. He  _was_ high, but he wasn't OD'ing. Not like the poor kid I found five minutes before.” Greg rubbed his face, “Twelve fucking hours of sleep.”

“You're a good person, Greg.” John murmured, burying half of that in a sip of coffee, “It's just a bloody shame your bitch of an ex-girlfriend can't see it.”

“That's her own damn fault, kid. Don't let Chelsea bug you too much, I'll be alright.”

“Besides  _that_ , you found a damn fine replacement.” John sniffed dismissively, “At least she never saddled you with kids like Margaret did with Henry. For all the good  _that_ did any of us.”

“You've taken good care of the kids, John. Don't think about them.” Greg squeezed John's shoulder, trying to pull him away from that dark place, “And for someone in your situation, you really beat the learning-curve to a pulp. But then, you'd been doing it since you were twelve. Twelve years old and looking after your junkie parents and older sister with the twins to handle. God bless you, John Watson.”

“That's why I became a doctor, y'know?” John finished his coffee and got another cup, “So I could take care of others like I took care of my own family. Like I take care of the Holmeses.”

“That reminds me.” Greg rubbed the back of his neck, “I feel real bad for missing your Passing Out Ceremony. Did anyone show up for it?”

“Violet and Siger came, and Mycroft. They brought the twins.” John smiled, “Funny how that worked out, though. I was a scrappy little street-kid when Sherlock took me home to his family. I was...nine? Ten years old?”

“You've kept Sherlock straight, or tried to, since then. But you've always been there for him.”

“I'd kind of like to keep being there for him. If he doesn't kill himself first.” John twirled his cup, “What if he says no, Greg?”

“Then there's nothing we can do but stand back and support him in whatever bad choices he makes.” Greg rubbed the back of John's neck, “But he'll listen to you, he always has. He tries, and he respects you.” He watched the young man finish his coffee and chuck the empty cup in the bin, “Come on, son. I'll take you to UCLH if you want to see him before you ship out.”

“I'd...like that. He might not want to see me, but I'll say goodbye to Mycroft anyway.” John sniffed, straightened up, and Greg swallowed hard. He remembered John and Sherlock as the scrappy kids playing on the grounds of the Holmes family home both in London and out in Sussex. John had been ten the first time they met, and Sherlock a very precocious seven, but for some reason the two of them had just hit it off and the rest of that friendship was history.

 

He remembered a messy custody trial when John had been thirteen, the twins had been five. Tristan hadn't even been conceived yet. But somehow, by some  _bloody_ miracle, the barrister Siger had found to take the Watson's case pro-bono had not only wrangled full independence for Harry at sixteen, but custody of all existing Watson children  _and_ any future children to the care of the Holmes family until they were of age to create their own lives. Almost overnight, they had gone from one of the poorest families in three boroughs to a life of relative luxury. As a result of this, with glaring exception for Harry who had always done her own thing and always would, John and his siblings had gone to good, reputable schools, gotten excellent educations, and John had then decided he wanted to do something with himself and gone to medical school with his bills paid for by the British Army. Now he had graduated from medical school and was getting shipped off to...somewhere. And he was offering his erratic best friend a chance to make something of himself at the same time.

 

Shaking his head, Greg tossed his own empty cup and went to let Susan know he was taking John to see Sherlock. She had  _no_ problem babysitting and promised to call Siger and Violet if she needed an extra hand. Grateful for that at least, Greg grabbed his jacket and radio and headed for the door, hoping they could escape without any more hold-ups. That hope went straight out the window when he heard a shriek behind them and spun on his heel, half-expecting trouble. It was trouble, alright. Greg groaned and pressed one hand to his eyes.

“Oh, Christ. Donovan!” He dared to peek and sighed, “For fuck's sake! Oi! You two, knock it off!” Like the pair of horny kids they were, he watched John Watson and Sally Donovan take a step away from each other with nearly-identical expressions on their faces. Caught but not sorry enough.

“Sorry, sir.”

“It's fine, just...tone it down?” Greg shook his head as the pair tagged along after him. He tried to think of how long John and Sally had known each other, or even how they'd  _met_. He thought their friendship might have been around longer than John's friendship with Sherlock. He seemed to recall Donovan making mention of the fact that she'd grown up in the council estates when she'd cleared Police Academy and come on to work at New Scotland Yard. He wondered if she had lived in the same council estate the Watsons had until the courts had handed custody of the children to one of the richest families in the city. It would explain why they got along so well whenever John visited New Scotland Yard, or they ran into each other out on the streets. John and Sherlock had a slightly annoying habit of popping up at crime scenes but usually turned out to be helpful. When they got to his car, he gave John and Donovan a chance to say their momentary goodbyes. He was pretty sure he heard Donovan ask if he was reporting to Durham tonight. John said no, he was flying from London City Airport first thing in the morning to Durham, and from there he was flying to...Germany? And then to his final destination: Kabul. Afghanistan.

“They're sending you to  _Afghanistan_? John, no!” Oh, Donovan did  _not_ like that, and frankly, neither did Greg. It was November, they wouldn't see John again until May. And that was if he came home in one piece. He listened as John promised Donovan that he would see her again tonight, he wasn't going to just up and leave without saying a proper goodbye. That didn't do much for his constable's mood, but it was enough for her to at least let him go long enough to finish up his business at University College London Hospital. Greg had already started the car, and as soon as John had his seat-belt on, he put the car in gear.

“Were you going to _tell_ anyone where they were sending you?”

“I told my family. Violet's reaction was about the same as Sal's, Siger was more like you.” John cleared his throat, “The kids...didn't understand. Well, the littles didn't. Poor Darcy, she doesn't even know I'm leaving. Tristan doesn't understand why.”

“He's  _four_ , John! How can you expect a four-year-old to understand something as complicated as war?”

“I can't.” John ruffled his hair, already cut military-short. It had grown out from the close cut he'd sported during Basic Training, but it was still  _very_ short.

“You know Siger would have paid your way through university, John.”

“I know. But...even though he's been my father-figure for years, he knows I like to do things on my own. The money is still mine, I still have access to it, it's just not going to be spent on education.”

“The Holmes family has been very good to you, haven't they?”

“They always have been.” John cracked a smile, “Worried as they are, Siger and Violet really are proud of me.”

“Of course they are.” Greg smiled and reached across the centre console, “All of us are. And really, if you forget to write home, John, I will have hell to sit through from the girls.  _Please_ don't forget to write home.”

“I won't.” John chuckled, “I'm so glad Detective Moses likes me.”

“She finds you very charming, John.” Greg sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, “Boy, you're not going to miss the traffic out there, are you?”

“Oh, I probably will. It's a completely different world out there, Greg.” John braced one foot against the dashboard, adjusting his boot-laces, “Desert for miles, wary locals, half-mad terrorists hiding in the hills. Am I mad for going out there?”

“Mad? Maybe. But very brave, too.” Greg flipped through radio-channels until he found one with decent music. “Have you studied the languages at all?”

“Took a few courses during uni.” He wrinkled his nose, “Back when I joined up, I couldn't figure out what to do with myself, so I took on with the Signal Corps, got in with the 2nd Regiment, 214 Squadron.”

“You?” Greg didn't mean to laugh, “You went Signals!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well  _done_ , Watson!” He chuckled, “I'll be damned. You said 2nd Reg, 214 Squad?”

“Yes, sir.” John smiled.

“Mmhm.” Greg shook his head, “Let me guess your troop. Viking?”

“If you saw my badge, that's cheating.”

“Which is on your  _other_ sleeve, son.” Greg reached over and ruffled John's short hair, “Nah,  _that_ was a lucky guess. Was I right?”

“Yes, you were.”

“Oh,  _nicely_ done! So, why did you go to Medical School, then?”

“I like helping people, but I figured worst case, I can always back up to be a Siggie if it comes right down to it.” John shrugged, a little more relaxed. Greg looked him over more closely and realized that, no matter what he did or what he'd gone in for, John Watson was perfect for the Army. Now, as for his bit with the Royal Corps of Signals, would he have gone on as a Communication Systems Operator, a Communication Systems Engineer, or...or...hmm. Had John Watson gone in with the Signal Corps as an Electronic Warfare Systems Operator, the clever signalers who intercepted and jammed enemy communications? That seemed to be a bit more Sherlock's thing than John's, but he knew John was clever, resourceful, and had a knack for things like that.

-&-

When they reached the hospital, he let John out first and followed after parking the car. At the desk, with John beside him, he asked for Holmes. The nurse on duty gave him directions. Greg nodded absently.

“And...uh, Richard Lockley?”

“They're sharing a room at the moment. Are you family?”

“Of a sort.” He shrugged it off and pocketed his badge, “Unless  _his_ family materialized out of thin air.” Greg sighed and led the way up to the proper floor. The room was quiet but not silent, and Greg looked at John when they noticed a distinct  _lack_ of complaining from Sherlock.

“Wouldn't put it past the git to break out of here unseen.” John hissed, backing up to the door before he peeked around into the room. Greg snickered, knowing it was his training with the Army that had just kicked in. They were perfectly safe, and yet he was treating this like a potential ambush-situation. And considering who they had come to see, Greg didn't blame him. John went in first, his footsteps nearly silent, and Greg followed.

“Oh, you'll do  _fine_ in the Army!” He whispered. The room was so quiet because, miraculously, Sherlock Holmes was sound asleep. A curtain separated Sherlock's half of the room from that occupied by Richard Lockley, and Greg ground his teeth together. Shaking his head, he watched John approach Sherlock's bedside and study his friend for a minute before he did something risky. Careful not to cause too much commotion, John slid onto the narrow bed, wedging into a narrow space alongside Sherlock, who stirred but did not wake up. Leaving the boys for the moment, Greg pulled aside the curtain for Rocky's bed and heaved a sigh of relief. Seated at the bedside was an elderly couple, roughly in their eighties, possibly in their nineties, just beside themselves with grief. So, Rocky  _did_ have a family. He didn't announce himself, respecting their privacy, but it seemed human habit to always know if there was someone nearby you. The gentleman raised his head and looked over his shoulder. When he caught sight of Greg standing there, he got slowly to his feet. Wincing, Greg rushed forward quietly and held out one hand.

“Oh, thank you, son.”

“Of course, sir.” He looked at the unconscious boy in the bed, unable to help the expression on his face, “Christ.”

“You're the brave Detective Sergeant who pulled my grandson out of that drug-den this afternoon.” It was not a question. Greg nodded.

“Yes, sir. Gregory Lestrade.”

“Curtis Holliday. Thank you, Mr Lestrade. You saved my boy's life.”

“It...was the least I could do. God, I'm so glad he's got some family.”

“We're all he's got. Dad's dead, mum's not in his life.” Mr Holliday shook his head, “When we got that phone-call, I cried.” Greg sighed and looked around the quiet room.

“Have you eaten, sir?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked if you've had something to eat in the past few hours.”

“Oh. Heavens, no. Dottie ate something earlier, but...”

“Well.” Greg ruffled his hair, “I missed lunch completely. Can you leave your wife and grandson for a few minutes?”

“Oh, I suppose. But who will look out for them?”

“Plenty of people. John Watson's got instincts and good ears. Also, I'd be a damn fool if Mycroft Holmes isn't sneaking around here somewhere. He's got eyes everywhere.” Greg folded his arms and waited as Rocky's grandfather explained himself to his wife, who just nodded and told him to go on.

“Don't worry, ma'am, I'll take care of him.” Greg smiled at the woman, who managed a blinding smile despite her grief.

“Oh, heavens, son! Call me Dottie!”

“Alright then.” He smiled and ushered Rocky's grandfather out of the room. He looked in on John and Sherlock, “John, can you keep an eye on things? I'm stepping out for a minute.”

“No problem, Greg. Go on.” John looked over his shoulder at them and gave a weak smile. Greg knew this whole thing was breaking John's heart and regretted that John was shipping out to Afghanistan in the morning. As they left the room and headed for the hospital canteen, Mr Holliday looked back once.

“You said that young fellow's name was Watson? The soldier?”

“Uh, yeah. John Watson. You know him?”

“He used to work for me, before he went to medical school. Smart lad, diligent and resourceful.”

“Yeah, that sounds like John.” Greg smiled, “What, exactly, do you do, Mr Holliday? Or...did do?”

“Oh, I run an accounting firm. Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm old, but I've got my marbles. All of 'em. Can't stand bein' bored.” 

“I'm sorry.” Greg bit his lip, “But most people your age are retired, sir.”

“Bah, I'll die first! Too much livin' to do to be sedentary!”

“I suppose.”

“And someone's got to be around to look after Rocky.” Holliday's expression saddened a bit. Greg sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his hi-vis jacket. When they got to the canteen, he picked something simple for lunch and after Holliday picked something, paid and found a seat. For fifteen minutes, he enjoyed a quiet meal and some decent company. John's inclination to pull Sherlock into the Army with him put an idea in Greg's head and he wondered how he could put it to Holliday.

“Something's on your mind, Detective. What is it?” Holliday had noticed his expression, and Greg shook his head.

“I'm so sorry. But I just had a thought. Is Rocky a particularly troubled boy? He seems good, but...misguided. I speak from experience with Watson's companion.”

“He can be. He needs structure and discipline, but at my age I can't give him all of that. What did you have in mind?”

“Have you considered sending him to the Army Foundation College? That's forty-nine weeks of all the structure and discipline anyone could want.”

“You're a clever man, Detective.” Holliday grinned. “I found an enlistment flier under his bed the other day. It's what he wants to do, but he's far too young. Perhaps the AFC would be the right course of action.”

“Give him time to recover, and send him to the College.” Greg took a sip of water and checked his phone for messages. Nothing from John, of course, but there was one from Mycroft. He smiled and opened the message.

 

 

**Saw your car. Where are you? – MH**

 

**Down in the canteen. No lunch-break, took a mo to eat. – GL**

 

**Good. See you soon. – MH**

 

 

After finishing lunch, Greg binned his trash and went back up to Sherlock's room. Mycroft was waiting outside the room, wearing a content smile, and after bidding Holliday farewell, and good luck with Rocky, he checked on Sherlock and John. The boys were sitting up on the narrow bed together, facing each other with their knees touching. Sherlock sat with his back against the wall, John with his against the foot-board, chatting in lively, quiet tones. He wondered if John had broached the subject of Sherlock coming to the Army with him. It was so strange to see John sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed, his boots set carefully on the floor, but so...normal.

“Alright, boys, I've got a mountain of paperwork with my name on it, so I'll leave you to it.” He hated leaving them, but Mycroft would get them where they needed to go. “John, don't forget to write.”

“I won't, Greg. Swear.” John just smiled at him, and Greg knew it was John's smile he would miss the most.

“Well, my loves. Be well, be safe, and be smart.” He kissed each boy and left the hospital a little heartbroken. Mycroft followed him back to The Yard and kept him company while he finished the stacks of paperwork that had proliferated on his desk. Tristan was, of course, absolutely thrilled to see Mycroft, who took five minutes to play with John's youngest siblings. He always did, and it always caught people by surprise when someone as important as Mycroft Holmes stooped to literal child's play.

-&-

A month later, Sherlock graduated from university and left for Basic Training, determined to follow John wherever he went, and Greg just kept his fingers crossed. He said a prayer for the boys, for their safety and their friendship, for their strange and special brand of love. With John and Sherlock gone, Greg looked after John's siblings, keeping the older kids out of trouble as best he could and offering a night of babysitting for Siger and Violet to take a moment just for themselves. The only one he was constantly watching, really, was Harry Watson, who careened through life with a brand of recklessness that had him in fear for her sanity. She was an alcoholic, but she rebelled against rehab, and he was sure she had a bipolar disorder as well, but there was nothing for it. As long as he didn't have to call John or the Holmeses after responding to a body-call to find out it was Harry Watson, that was alright with him.

* * *

 


	2. Dear Friends Near and Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following John and Sherlock’s first deployment with the British Army, it didn’t take long for the boys to hit their strides and letters and calls home were regular and packed with news. The excitement and the contentment was palpable and contagious to their loved ones left behind in England, and those who knew them best were just relieved the boys had a creative, acceptable outlet for the excess of energy that had seized them both at an early age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief glimpse into the lives of John and Sherlock in the Army! I know nothing beyond what I've read on the interwebs, so I probably got something wrong. But I know a few things. And any Americanisms are totally mine. Happy Yank across the Atlantic here, dipping my toes in the pond of Sherlock fanfic writing. 
> 
> Brief and only meeting with Mrs. Hudson's husband, and mention of Moran. More on him in future chapters. Moran is a bit not good, but we already knew that.
> 
> "Italics" = phone/radio conversation  
> Bold = text messaging

* * *

***

* * *

Following John and Sherlock’s first deployment with the British Army, it didn’t take long for the boys to hit their strides and letters and calls home were regular and packed with news. The excitement and the contentment was palpable and contagious to their loved ones left behind in England, and those who knew them best were just relieved the boys had a creative, acceptable outlet for the excess of energy that had seized them both at an early age. It was almost a given that John would be a good fit for the Army lifestyle, but no one had really expected his petulant best friend to take so well to the structured, strict ways of Army life. But Sherlock, against all odds, was positively _thriving_. His commanders, when discreetly questioned, had nothing but good things to say about the fiesty genius. Yes he had his problems, but so did everyone else.

He didn’t have many friends, spending much of his time around John or somewhere nearby if he wasn’t able to be in the medic’s direct presence, keeping to himself otherwise and fulfilling his duties with very few complaints. Menial tasks he had abhored at home were undertaken with a relish overseas, and some careful questioning revealed that between John and the presistent drill-instructors during Basic Training, he had come to see the necessity and even the joy of something as simple and _boring_ as mopping floors.

With the right motivation and a few hours to himself, he could get the whole barracks-room he shared with twenty other men spotless. Any personal effects left about were carefully stored on the bunk of the owner once the beds had been made to military specs, stacked neatly, and everything else put in it’s rightful place. No one minded clean sheets after a long patrol, and no one _ever_ minded the scent of fresh lemon that signaled a clean barracks-room.

He would pick up mail and leave stacks of letters and packages for his squad-mates who got such correspondence. He kept his bunk, shared with John, always neat and nothing was ever left about. John would tease him about his house-keeping habits, and what a slob he was back home, but it never seemed to bother him. And _everyone_ loved it when, on quiet nights and everyone was safe on base after dinner, he would pull out his violin and play a few songs.

 

John of course was exemplary, turning out to be one of the best sharp-shooters in his battalion, never mind his small unit of twenty, friend to everyone and smart where it counted. He took his job as a medic very seriously and cared for everyone with equal compassion. His fluency in the native languages was extremely useful and helped smooth the way for good relations between the Western forces and the locals. His training as a doctor was also helpful, as the locals seemed far more likely to trust someone with a red cross on their sleeve. 

Between the two boys, there were plenty of nights of driving their barracks-mates to hysterics as Sherlock picked apart each and every one of them with a special breed of restraint, never saying anything purposefully hurtful. And if he knew something about another soldier’s lovelife back home that might be a bit not good and certainly not fit for public ridicule, he kept it to himself until he could approach the man in question. And since insults were kind of Sherlock’s specialty, it was a point of wonder where he had learned such restraint. The answer, as with so many, was very simple: John. John kept him right, guided him straight, kept him out of trouble, gave him focus. Always had, and very likely always would.

***

Once John and Sherlock settled into a routine and rhythm that just seemed to work for them, it took almost two years for them to see home soil again. That was by their own choice, they kept taking deployments together wherever the Army could send them. Afghanistan for sixteen months, then a stint in Germany, another in Ireland, and a short deployment in Canada – not necessarily in that exact order – before they were finally told to use up some of their stagnating leave and spend some time with their families. So, home they went, dragging deployment bags stuffed with dirty clothes and far more sand than they cared to consider acceptable and a rucksack full of gifts for their loved ones.

It was noon, if John’s watch was right, when the cab they had hired at the airport pulled up to the kerb at 221 Baker Street. Every inch of him hurt, which was normal after a long flight like the one just forty-five minutes behind them, and he groaned as Sherlock pushed him impatiently out of the cab.

“Go, John!”

“Sod off, Sherlock. Christ.” He reached back and smacked his friend upside the head without looking, “I’m moving, alright? Get the bags, please? Don’t forget anything.”

“I won’t! Go!”

“Jesus, you’re impatient!” he rolled his eyes and paid the fare, “Have a good afternoon, sir.”

“My pleasure, boys. Thanks for your service!” The cabbie just smiled at John, shaking hands with him, “Have a good stay home, will you?”

“Sure plan to, sir.” He offered a passably polite smile as Sherlock dragged on his stable-belt, “For the love of God, Sherlock, I will lay you out on the sidewalk if it kills me! Knock it off!”

“Oh, come _on_ , John! Please?”

“What has you so wound up? You’ve been bouncing since we were halfway and crossing the Black Sea. Jesus Christ.” He picked up his bags and headed for the familiar black door. He hadn’t seen it in a while, but Baker Street was, and would always be, home.

“We’re _home_ , John! For the first time in _two years_!”

“So, Sherlock Holmes is homesick. Go fucking figure.” John rolled his eyes as he got his key in the door and shoved the door open with his shoulder, “Oh, remind me to fix the door for Mrs. Hudson? It’s stuck again.”

“Of course.” Sherlock was right behind him and kicked the door shut once they were both inside. Wondering if their landlady was home, he was about to call out for her when he heard a loud crash from the ground-floor flat, followed by raised voices. Fresh out of the field, they were wired to react in a violent situation and John heard the soft click as Sherlock quietly reached for his service-weapon.

“Upstairs.” He hissed, “We’ll come back down in a minute.”

“Right that.” Sherlock huffed and they quietly went upstairs to the flat they had shared for quite a while, so long John didn’t remember _not_ living with Sherlock. University, if he had his memory straight. Setting down their bags by the door, he cleared the upstairs rooms while Sherlock cleared their flat, but nothing was amiss in their living-spaces. So, making sure the safeties were off on their pistols but knowing better than to make use of them right out of the gate, they crept back downstairs.

Clearing houses in Afghanistan had trained them to move in near dead-silence, so no one else in the house heard them coming, and John figured that no one knew they were _in_ the house, given the volume of noise out of 221A. The door was unlocked, of course, Stanley was never smart enough to lock the door to keep any comers out, and John carefully turned the knob and pushed the door open with his foot, both hands on his pistol as he prepared to enter a volatile situation.

“Stanley’s drunk and violent, he’s not to be reasoned with.” Sherlock whispered in his ear, one hand on his shoulder in a mimic of what they had done together in the field, “You know what to do?”

“Take him out without using lethal force, and find a way to make sure he never hurts Mrs. Hudson ever again. Now, if the prick comes _at_ me, I’ll put a bullet through him to put him down, no hesitating.”

“Self-defense, you know.” Sherlock muttered, giving him a push.

“Get Emergency Services, we’ll need them anyway.” He stepped through the door and found the kitchen empty. Behind him, in the small living-area, Stanley Hudson stood over his wife, one hand upraised to strike her while she was down. In that hand was a cricket bat, which John was very certain had already been used on his landlady in the course of this latest and last confrontation. Sherlock had stayed outside the flat to call for help, and John proceeded on his own to put an end to this abuse. He had survived abuse in his childhood, he _hated_ seeing someone else hurt like that. Giving the off-kilter husband a good berth, he cocked back the hammer of his Browning and took careful aim, “Don’t do that, Stanley.”

“Well, well, well, well, _well_!” Stanley Hudson turned on him, blitzed and pyschotic, “If it ain’t my wife’s cock-sucking tramp of a guardian angel! Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

“John!” Mrs. Hudson coughed his name, genuinely surprised to see him. John ignored her for a moment, manuevering so he stood between Stanley and Mrs. Hudson, offering a bit of protection.

“John. Hamish. _Fucking._ Watson.” Stanley slurred, stepping towards John, swinging the bat menacingly, “You smug prick.”

“Stanley, I’m giving you fair warning. I don’t want to hurt you, don’t be stupid.” He wanted nothing more than to put a bullet through Stanley Hudson’s skull, but he wouldn't do that until he was in danger. “Mrs. Hudson, move.” He glanced to his side, “Clear me.” Understanding, Mrs. Hudson scrambled on hands and knees to get clear of them.

“No you don’t!” Stanley roared, lunging past John to go after his wife, “I ain’t _done_ with you!” John calmly tripped the drunk and let him sprawl, moving to pick up his landlady and pushed her out the door into Sherlock’s hands. He slammed the door, putting his back to it and facing down his landlay’s mad drunk husband.

“I won’t let you hurt her, Stanley, not today, not ever again.”

“What’re ya gonna _do_ , boyscout?” Stanley sneered, “Talk me to death?! Bah! You’re nothin’ but hot air and empty honor! You’re _nothin’_!” He spat on the ground between them, “You’re nothin’ but a wanna-be council estate mutt wantin’ to be something he ain’t! A little boy playin’ with his daddy’s guns, playin’ make-believe. Wantin’ to be all _special_ , you play soldier!”

“I do not have to stand here and take that kind of abuse from you, Stanley.” He maintained his calm, stifling the fury just under his skin. An absurd thought occurred to him and he straightened, carefully safing and holstering his gun. Bare-handed and unarmed, he faced off against Mrs. Hudson’s alcoholic husband. Stanley only saw an advantage and laughed as he came at John, swinging the bat. John knocked it away, wincing as the impact stung his forearm. With his free hand, he grabbed the bat and twisted it out of Stanley’s grasp, throwing it aside. But Stanley was beyond reason, and he wasn’t stupid. A knife appeared in his hand and John sighed.

“Fucking hell. Really?” He rolled his shoulders and squared himself, shaking off the sting of the blow laid down by the bat. There would be a bruise for certain. Crossing his arms in a defensive posture, he warded off the first attack, knocking Stanley back with a solid kick to the gut, ducking to avoid the down-swing of the knife, coming up again to face him. Again, Stanley charged with the fury and power of an angry bull. John stepped aside, turning to avoid the slashing blade. The drunkard regrouped and made another assault, putting all of his weight behind a blow aimed straight for John’s heart. Every ounce of training kicked in and John deflected the blow, felt the tearing of cloth, and set his teeth. He knew exactly when the blade made contact with his flesh and jumped. Seeing an advantage and his target wounded, Stanley came after him. John put an armchair between them, protecting his hurt side and reaching for his gun at the same time.

“Bastard.” He spat, flicking off the safety with one finger. Pulling the gun free of the holster, he took another step back from Stanley, “Don’t do this, Stanley, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Die like a pig, fairy!” Stanley snarled, making one final charge. John didn’t know what he tripped over, it felt like the coffee-table, but everything happened so quickly he couldn't track it. As his shoulders hit the carpet, he drew his knees to his chest, prepared to lash out. On pure reflex alone, his finger squeezed the trigger and he heard the shot echo in the flat. Stanley grunted, stopped in his tracks, and toppled face-first. Even with his ears ringing, John heard the wail of sirens and groaned.

“Oh, _perfect_!” he muttered, counting by sound as he shoved into a more-upright position. Three cars and an ambulance. Jesus, who called the cavalry? A domestic didn’t warrant _that_ many cars, did it?

“John! Fucking Christ! _John_!” Oh. Well, now Greg Lestrade knew they were home. Just perfect. The flat-door slammed open, kicked in by none other than the hard-working Detective Sergeant John had known all his life, the part that mattered, and the place was flooded with Yarders and an ambulance crew. They couldn't see him where he had propped himself half-against the couch, but they would in a moment.

***

As the call came over his radio for a domestic violence situation, Greg Lestrade cursed a number of gods. Really? This was his afternoon? Better than a dead body, but…honestly? Domestic _violence_?

“Say again, Dispatch?” He clicked his radio, “10-9.”

_“There is a 237D with 245, 417A, in progress on Baker Street.”_

“Oh Christ.” He leaned his forehead against the wheel of his car, “Not again!” How many calls had he responded to at 221 Baker Street? How many times had he dragged Stanley Hudson out of that house in hand-cuffs and spent the next hour consoling the man’s sweet wife, promising to do everything in his meager power to keep her safe? Bracing himself for an unpleasant situation, he buckled his seat-belt and clicked his radio, “10-4, Dispatch. We’re on our way.” Sitting beside him, her face tense, Sally Donovan buckled up and he saw her pull and check her service-weapon.

“We can’t keep putting him away.” She muttered, “He keeps posting bail and coming back to hurt Mrs. Hudson. It’s not fair.”

“One step at a time, Sal.” He cautioned his fiesty constable, “Don’t hold your breath, love.”

“Sorry.” She grimaced and it was a tense drive from their last post. He flipped on lights and sirens alike and made the drive, with traffic accounted for, in ten minutes. Two other Panda cars and an ambulance responded, and as soon as they pulled up, he set the brakes, grabbed his kit, and jumped out of the car.

“Vest, Donovan!” he snapped as he shrugged on his ballistics vest. The front door stood wide open, but there was no sign of the residents. Suddenly, a muffled pop reached them on the street. Greg froze for a moment, looked over the roof of his car at Sally, and ran, “Fuck! Run!” They stormed the house, he sent two of the officers upstairs to check 221B for any of the residents of the house and kicked in the door of 221A. “John!” He yelled, not entirely sure why he yelled for someone who might not _be_ in the house, “Fucking Christ! _John_!” Inside the ground-floor flat, he found Stanley Hudson, dead, and John Watson, _not_ dead. “Oh hell. John! Shit!” Jumping the dead man on the floor, he went to his knees before the gifted young Army medic, looking him over and being careful of his hurts, “John!”

“Not dead.” John wheezed.

“You fucking bastard.” He muttered, “Donovan!” In a heartbeat, Sally was at his side and they got John to his feet, “Easy, son. Easy.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“No you’re _not_ , shut up.” Greg snapped, “I _know_ that bastard tagged you, John.” Indeed, there was blood on John's uniform, and Greg's hand came away red from where he had supported John. Upstairs, he heard voices. Sherlock Holmes, he recognized that deep voice, Mrs. Hudson, and the constables. It didn’t take the ambulance team long to judge that John needed stitches for the knife-wound and an x-ray for a possible broken arm, and Greg sent John to hospital with Sally. Once they were gone, he called in the coroner’s van and forensics, taped off the flat, and went upstairs to get the rest of the story. Sherlock, he noticed, was _very_ tan, and _very_ angry. He and John had gotten home about fifteen minutes ago and interrupted the Hudson’s domestic. After pulling Mrs. Hudson to safety, John had confronted Stanley by himself, and the whole thing had ended right before they’d kicked the door in a minute ago.

“Well, John’s going to be fine, give or take a few new scars for the trouble of it.” He finished scribbling down the notes and twirled his biro, “I’d say I’m very sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I’m only sorry you were hurt by that bastard again.”

“The boys saved me, Greg. It’s alright.” She smiled and squeezed his hand, “We’re safe now.”

“Yeah, I guess so. And John Watson’s a bloody fucking hero.” He sighed, shaking his head, “Hell of a way for me to find out you boys were home, you know?”

“Sorry, Greg.” Sherlock looked properly tame, “But…we’re home a while, so it’s not like you’ve only got a few days.”

“You’d better have more than a few fucking days, Sherlock! It’s been two bloody years since you left! Letters, phone-calls, and Skype are all fine, but not enough.”

“We know.” Sherlock smiled, “We’re home a month. Maybe longer.”

“That’s fine with me.” He sighed, “I could definitely use your help, little brother.” The way Sherlock’s eyes lit up, you’d have thought he’d offered the crown jewels. Army life suited Sherlock and John, but he knew that the boys' first love would always be crime. 

After the scene had been cleared, he went back to New Scotland Yard. It was an hour before he heard from Sally, who came back to the Yard by herself with news on John.

“Well, the idiot got himself beat up pretty good this time.”

“What is it?”

“Broken wrist and a few dozen stitches for the knife-wound on his right flank. Damn fool could have been seriously hurt.” Sally tossed her patrol-cap onto his desk, taking the empty seat behind him.

“And yet, Baker Street is safer now than it’s ever been.”

“Thanks to selfless John Watson.” Sally spun the chair with one foot, “How’s Sherlock?”

“Tan, himself, and very worried. You didn’t see him, did you?”

“Showed up right as I was leaving.” His gifted constable was upset, not that he blamed her. The rest of the day was pretty quiet and he was able to go home at a reasonable hour, but instead of going back to his small studio flat off of Hyde Park, he drove out to Baker Street to check on the boys, picking up Thai take-away since he very much doubted they would have remembered something as simple as eating.

When he let himself in, Greg heard the soft wail of a violin and smirked. Back to business as usual for the boys. He kicked the door shut and checked on 221A, but Mrs. Hudson was not home. If she wasn’t upstairs, he’d ask if she had gone to stay with her sister a few days. The sight to greet him when he entered 221B was familiar and comfortable. Sherlock stood with his back to the room, coaxing sweet music from his violin, and John sat at the work-table with his laptop. No sign of Mrs. Hudson. He chuckled and went into the kitchen.

“Wash up and sit, boys, I brought food.”

“Oh, bless you, Greg!” John came in first and Greg stopped him to get a look at the battle-damage, “I’m _fine_.”

“Don’t say that, John, he was aiming for your heart.” Greg sighed, carefully examining the cast around his wrist, “Broken?”

“That’s what they say.”

“What did they give you for pain-control?”

“I turned down narcotics, obviously, a few Paracetamol should do the trick.”

“Smart boy. Come on, you.” He pushed John towards the sink, “Sherlock!”

“Coming.” Sherlock obediently set down his violin and went to the bathroom to wash his hands while Greg helped John.

“So, I noticed Mrs. Hudson’s gone?”

“Went to stay with her sister for a bit.”

“Don’t blame her at all.” He sighed, “You boys want some company tonight?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” He smiled and carefully pulled the hem of John’s tee-shirt up to look at the bandages covering the stitches, “How many stitches?”

“Couple dozen. Doesn’t hurt that much.”

“It wouldn't.” He carefully patted the bandaged ribs, “You’re a lucky fool, John Watson. Sit down, son.” Dinner was quiet, they did not speak of the events of that afternoon, and the boys got ready for bed while he cleaned up the kitchen and stashed the leftovers in the fridge. Unable to sleep, he flipped through channels of late-night trash-telly and came up empty. Finally, John tossed in The Fellowship of The Ring and they watched a proper epic film. The boys fell asleep on the couch about halfway through the film, and Greg smiled as John started to snore. He did that only if he was exhausted. Shaking his head, he got the boys to bed and shut down the lights around the house, making sure all of the doors were locked. Taking the guest-room, Greg chucked his uniform, sleeping in his pants and tee-shirt. It was several hours before his mobile buzzed with a call, and he snagged a quick shower before he headed out the door, making sure the boys were still asleep. If he needed them, he could call Sherlock.

***

After the excitement of making 221 Baker Street a safer place for all of it’s residents, and getting a mark on his record for the self-defense shooting-death of Stanley Hudson but nothing beyond that and all charges dropped, John Watson found himself on roughly two months of leave. One month was spent on medical leave due to injuries he had sustained during the encounter with Stanley, a shallow, superficial knife-wound to his right flank, and a nightstick fracture of his left arm, and one month was spent on regular leave. It was _three_ months before his number came up for deployment, this time to Germany. Sherlock had re-deployed ahead of him, stationed somewhere in the wide world and probably not in Germany. Which, if that was true, would make this the first deployment they had been separated.

Ten months came and passed, he took another deployment to Germany. Three months into his second deployment in Westfalen, a group came through from Camp Bastion. The guys were exhausted, worn out, and eager to put the desert behind them for a while. John was organizing supplies in the hospital when the unit arrived, so he missed them. He knew they were in, of course, word had passed along the ranks two days ago that they were getting some company, and when John heard it was his unit from Afghanistan, he’d spared a quick thought for his guys. Finishing up his restock work, he scribbled a few notes in the supply-logs for what needed re-ordering and what they were good on for a while, hung the log on the hook, and left the supply-rooms. As he locked the door behind him, he heard voices and footsteps. Not coming his way, but nearby. He smirked and brushed off his jacket after hanging the keys in the lock-box by the door. As he walked away, John wondered if any of the guys had word from Sherlock. Or if Sherlock had come with them. As he came around the next corner, he stepped around a cluster of newcomers, marked them by their dusty uniforms and tans.

“Captain.” They stepped back to give him space, respectful of his higher rank. He returned their salutes with a nod as he kept on his way.

“Nice change of weather, boys?”

“Yes, sir!” They nodded enthusiastically. He chuckled and left them behind. They all looked healthy, just beat up and tired. Afghanistan could do that to you, though, the desert was a cruel mistress. No sooner had he cleared the next corner beyond the group than he heard a yell.

“John! Wait!” Ah, _there_ he was. John stopped and turned to wait. Not a minute later, Sherlock Holmes came tearing around the corner. Completely ignoring protocol, Sherlock hugged him so hard they both made a one-eighty turn and ended up against the wall.

“Knew you were in.” John hugged his best friend, “Christ I missed you, Sherlock!”

“It’s hell over there, John.”

“And it’s only going to get worse.” He leaned against the tall frame of the brilliant, half-mad genius. “Christ, I’m glad you’re okay!”

“I’m _fine_. How’s Mrs. Hudson?”

“Absolutely fine.” He chuckled and nudged Sherlock away, “Back up, will you? Give me room to breathe!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Sherlock backed up. John smiled and leaned up, stole a quick kiss, and stepped past Sherlock.

“Come on, tell me everything.”

“Tell you what?”

“How the guys are doing, how many times you’ve narrowly escaped certain death. You know, the usual.”

“Oh. Well.” Sherlock grinned and talked as they left the hospital together, filling him in on everything he’d missed. They’d lost a few guys, not surprising, and had a new CO. Sherlock didn’t like him much, but they maintained a begrudging respect.

“You can’t act out against a commanding officer, Sherlock, they’ll boot you so fast you won’t have a chance to breathe.”

“Oh, no, I’m not that stupid.” Sherlock shook his head, “There’s just something about Moran that rubs me the wrong way. There’s this…darkness about him, a tension. I don’t trust him, but I keep it to myself.”

“That’s all you can do.” John sighed, wondering what it was about this Major Moran that had Sherlock so unsettled. His flate-mate was good at reading people, it’s what made him such a gifted detective, but he usually didn’t give them much more than a passing interest. _People_ bored him, for the most part, but Sherlock was intuitive. It made him a valuable friend and a good soldier. If Sherlock didn’t trust someone, for whatever reasons he had, it was usually in John’s best interest to pay attention. He would, of course, make his own judgment regarding Moran when he had a chance to meet the man for himself, but John knew better than to doubt Sherlock’s instincts. Right now, however, he was far more interested in taking a few minutes to be _with_ Sherlock, not any thoughts either of them might be having at the moment.

***

After a few months apart, John and Sherlock went to extraordinary lengths to make sure they weren’t separated by service-obligations ever again. They kept in touch with their loved ones at home, and made a point to visit whenever they happened to take leave in London. John eventually encountered Sebastian Moran, and understood right away why Sherlock didn’t like him much. There was something about him that itched at John’s awareness, something not quite right. He took orders from Moran, kept professional distance between them, and stayed below Moran’s radar. In this fashion, years passed and they moved up the ranks together.


	3. The Process of Death and Grieving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty men out on patrol, two senior officers leading the way. They handed out water and food at a local village friendly to the Allied forces trying to drive out the insurgents and bring some sort of peace to the war-ravaged Middle East. On their way back to base, they came under attack as a group of insurgents launched an ambush. They were pinned down two miles from the village and six miles from base, calls went out for air-support and assistance, but by the time anyone reached them, from the village or the base, twenty men were dead. At least, that’s what the commanding officers thought, that’s what the newspapers and families back home were told. For two of those twenty unfortunates, that wasn’t entirely true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!WARNING FOR TEMPORARY MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH!!! This is it, folks! This is why I tagged warnings and used the Archive Warnings! It's NOT permanent, but writing this made me cry, so you might want to have tissues handy if angst isn't your thing. Yes, ANGST! I don't write angst, like ever! Well, not like this anyway! Waaugh! Let me know if you hate Moran as much as I do, I HATE him, so much. Haven't figured out what I'm going to do with him, but it won't be pretty. And sorry if anyone is OOC, but...well, the Baker Street Boys got into serious trouble! Tissues at the ready!
> 
> This one's kind of short, because the longer version didn't really...fit. It lost some of the focus. So, short chapter go!  
> ***  
> (("text inside these brackets is Kurdish"))
> 
> <"text inside these brackets is Dari">

* * *

***

* * *

 

Eight years of service came and went for John and Sherlock in the proverbial blink of an eye. From 2005 to the middle of 2009, they took more and longer deployments in Afghanistan, set into the thick of the hot action as the violence picked up. They managed to stay out of trouble fairly effectively and continued to call and write home whenever they had time and it was calm enough to put pen to paper or pick up a phone. But the uneasy routine was disrupted one afternoon while John and Sherlock were out on patrol with half of their squad.

Twenty men out on patrol, two senior officers leading the way. They handed out water and food at a local village friendly to the Allied forces trying to drive out the insurgents and bring some sort of peace to the war-ravaged Middle East. On their way back to base, they came under attack as a group of insurgents launched an ambush. They were pinned down two miles from the village and six miles from base, calls went out for air-support and assistance, but by the time anyone reached them, from the village or the base, twenty men were dead. At least, that’s what the commanding officers thought, that’s what the newspapers and families back home were told. For two of those twenty unfortunates, that wasn’t entirely true.

 ***

As the cries of the wounded and dying faded, and the insurgents patrolled the bodies looking for survivors, John Watson remained absolutely still. He knew exactly where Sherlock Holmes was, two feet to his right. He knew Sherlock was alive. The sand beneath John was soaked, turned red as he bled out. He had taken a bullet to the shoulder, Sherlock had tried to tend him before being knocked out by a close blow to the head. The bullet had grazed the side of his friend’s neck, but Sherlock would survive. If help came, that was. He wouldn't, but what was so bad about dying for your country and friends? A Jeep came down the track and John closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against a groan. His head was spinning, but he was still aware enough to recognize not only the tread, but the voice of the driver. Overhead, not four feet away, the leader of the insurgents spoke to whoever had arrived just now. They spoke Kurdish. Not that surprising, but not a language he would have expected to hear out here in the Afghanistan desert.

((“Eighteen are dead already, sir. There are two still living.”)) The ring-leader said, ((“Shall we take prisoners?”))

((“No. Who's still alive?”)) Oh yes, he recognized that voice. John forced his eyes open and looked over at Sherlock, who reached for him.

“It’s Moran!” Sherlock whispered. John blinked to acknowledge, it was all he could do. “Don’t move!”

((“Their commanders.”))

((“Ah. Yes, of course.”)) Sebastian Moran chuckled and circled the two of them, “John Hamish Watson and William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Two of our best and brightest.” John clenched his teeth and wished he had enough strength to say something. “What a pity, you held so much promise.”

((“What should we do with them, sir?”))

((“I think it's time to send a message.”)) Moran stood over them, eyes alight with a fire that terrified John. He felt Sherlock’s fingers twitch in his hand. ((“Don't worry about Watson, he's as good as dead anyway. My compliments to your man for that shot, rivalled our best. Rivaled Watson, even.”))

((“And his friend?”))

((“Won't be a problem.”)) John winced as Moran kicked him in the side, judging his nearness to complete, permanent oblivion, ((“If he survives this.”))

((“What about us, sir? My men and I?”))

((“You can disappear. This will not come back to any of us. This is just another ambush.”)) There was a shuffle as the insurgents disappeared into the desert much the same way they had appeared, leaving eighteen dead soldiers and two close enough. John realized that this whole thing had been set up by Moran, but...why? If they pulled through this somehow, he’d have to sit down with Sherlock and go back over the gruesome details of this day.

“You two are pathetically loyal to each other, even at the end. It’s almost sweet.” Moran chuckled, “Give my regards to your brother, Captain Holmes. See you in the next life.” John was half-laying on Sherlock’s arm by this point and holding on for dear life. Not Sherlock, please god. The last thing John heard was the sharp crack of Moran’s weapon, the full-body jerk, as Sherlock was shot like a wounded dog in the street. He had failed, for once in his life, John Watson had failed. Twenty people were dead, he was one of them, because he had followed orders against the niggling little voice of reason in the back of his head that screamed at him to go home another way that day, to take another path. But he’d gone home on the same route they had taken so many times before without any problems, believing that he and his men were safe. His best friend was dead because of him, and that just wasn’t something he could handle.

 

It was quiet only for a while after the insurgents and Moran left, and John was aware of someone moving him. So, he wasn’t dead, then? He groaned as he was lifted from the ground and set down momentarily on something sturdy and solid. A wagon? Someone must have wandered past and found them, but…why risk collecting the dead? Weakened by blood-loss, John wasn’t aware of anything beyond a blissful oblivion. Then, through the fog of his oblivion and pain, John heard someone speak to him, able to make out Dari.

<“You are safe now, British. Please, don't give up. Don't die on us, you have so much to live for.”>

He had plenty worth fighting to live for, he couldn’t just...give up and die.

_Give me a second chance to bring Moran to justice. That’s all I want. Let me get restitution for my men, let me avenge Sherlock. Please, just…don't let this be my last legacy. God, please give me another chance. Just one chance to make things right. Don’t let this be in vain for my guys, they’ve fought too long and too hard for this to be forgotten._

John shouldn't have worried about second chances. He and Sherlock were about to get the mother of all second chances, they just didn’t know it.

*** 

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes cheated death in the deserts of Afghanistan with eighteen of their men killed, targeted by one of his own commanding officers, his family found out two days later. It was a Saturday, which Greg Lestrade would recall very clearly a few months later. It was about ten o’clock in the morning when an otherwise unremarkable, quiet morning was interrupted by a sharp, loud knock on the door.

“Were we expecting anyone?” Mycroft Holmes looked up from his reading at the sound. Greg shook his head.

“I don’t think so. If it was work for either of us, they would have called.” He shoved to his feet and padded to the front door. He checked the peep-hole first and frowned. A man in familiar dress-uniform stood outside on the stoop. This couldn't be good. Pulling open the door but not sliding off the chain, he peered out of the house, “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, is this the residence of Mycroft Holmes?”

“It is. What do you want with him?”

“My name is Sebastian Moran.” The man pulled off his peaked cap and tucked it under one arm, smoothing his hair with one hand, “I have news about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Who are you?”

“I’m Greg Lestrade. His husband. What happened to the boys?”

“May I come in, sir?”

“Of course.” He unlatched the door and held it open, “Are they alright?”

“I’m afraid not.” Moran stepped into the house and Greg shut the door. Something had happened to John and Sherlock, something bad. Deep in his gut, he knew the boys were dead.

“When did it happen?” He blocked Moran’s way, “How?”

“It was an ambush, they had no chance. No help could get there fast enough.”

“Jesus Christ.” He raked one hand through his hair, “Shit.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr Lestrade.” Moran touched his arm, “Were you very close?”

“Of course I was!” He felt a tightness in his chest and pressed a hand to his lips, “Oh my god.” He returned to the sitting-room with Moran in tow, and as soon as he got to the couch, Mycroft was already on his feet. He knew something was wrong, and as soon as he spotted Moran, he knew.

“You were their commanding officer in Afghanistan.” Mycroft held Greg while he broke down, addressing Moran, “The boys spoke of you often.”

“Ours was not the smoothest relationship, but I appreciated their diligence and skills.” Moran stood stiffly before them, “Major Watson and Captain Holmes were on patrol with eighteen of their men when they were pinned by enemy fire. Eighteen were killed, but Holmes and Watson are rumoured to have survived.”

“Rumored?” That word got Greg’s attention and he looked up at Moran.

“When rescue arrived, those two were gone. It’s uncertain at this time if they were taken captive by the insurgents or spirited away by locals.” Moran shrugged, “In any event, the Army has listed them as Missing In Action until either they themselves are recovered alive or their bodies are found.”

"Thank you, Colonel." Mycroft held on to Greg's hand the entire time, still managing to project an intimidating presence sitting down and comforting his distraught husband, "I appreciate your candour."

"I'm so very sorry I had to give you this bad news, Mr Holmes, but I figured I owed you the news in person." Moran offered a stiff nod, "My deepest condolences to you and your families. Good day to you both." From a pocket, he pulled a cloth pouch that he set down on the coffee-table. Greg got up, picked up the pouch, and saw Moran out.

As soon as the door was locked, he sank against the door, slid to the floor, and sat there, holding onto the only pieces he had left of John and Sherlock. Opening the pouch, he found their identification-tags. Shaking so hard his teeth rattled, and glad it was a Saturday and he hadn’t been called into work, he pulled off the secondary tags and switched them so that each set had one each of John’s tags and Sherlock’s tags on the same chain. Without wasting a minute more, he slid the chain of one set over his head and tucked them under his shirt, closing his hands around the cool metal discs under his clothes. He gave Mycroft the other set of tags, looping the chain over his husband’s head without a word. Fetching a glass of water from the kitchen, he set the kettle on to fix tea. It reminded him of John, and he sat on the counter, wishing for another chance to see the boys together, to kiss John, to hold Sherlock, to tell the boys how much he loved them, and hating that the chances of the future had been taken away from him. When the tea was ready, he gave Mycroft one cup and they sat in silence.

“It was Moran, you know.” He muttered, “Don’t ask me how I know, I just…I know it was him.”

“The boys never liked him, did they?”

“They never trusted him.” He held the warm cup between his hands, “Oh, Christ, Mycroft, what are we going to do?!”

“Wait for the boys to come home.” Mycroft hugged him. Greg sipped the tea carefully.

“You know, this is John’s whole thing right here.” He murmured.

“He always knew what blend, how much sugar or milk, based on your mood.” Mycroft sighed, and Greg leaned his head against Mycroft's shoulder. He was already tired from crying, but the tears kept coming. He felt kind of...empty. Was this how the families of victims felt when he gave them the bad news of a loved one's death? God, it was awful. His chest hurt, and he was dizzy. But Mycroft was there, and that's all he could ask for right now.

 

It went without saying that Greg didn't get any sleep that night, spending most of it pacing the house between bouts of crying. Around eight, he got so restless he grabbed a jacket and his keys and left the house. But instead of driving, he bundled up and walked the streets of London for a while. The world seemed grey, and seeing so many unsuspecting civilians who had  _no_ idea of the terrible loss the city had suffered made him angry. But it wasn't their fault, after all, they really didn't know.

About an hour later, he stopped to see where his aimless, grief-stricken wanderings had brought him and realized that he was standing outside of the Baker Street flat. Oh. He suspected that Mrs Hudson didn't know. Greg fumbled in his pockets for another cigarette and a lighter, hoping he had one left, he'd burned through almost an entire pack over this mess. He'd probably get sick with nicotine poisoning, he was already hoarse and coughing if he breathed too deeply. But it didn't matter, the boys were beyond their reach, beyond help. That hurt. Finding one lonely cigarette, he crumpled the pack and shoved it back into his pocket as he lit it, sinking onto the stoop of 221 Baker Street, leaning back against the solid wooden door and thinking of all the times he had come here looking for the boys to help out on a case or just to visit. And how he would never get that chance again. He must have dozed off, because it seemed like only a few minutes later he was being shaken awake by a very concerned Mrs Hudson. John and Sherlock's landlady stood in her doorway, looking down at him, with two full trash-bags in hand and a puzzled expression on her face.

“Greg, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, sorry, Mrs Hudson.” he got to his feet and stood aside to let her out, “Didn't mean to bother you.”

“You're not bothering me, but it's not every night I open my door and find a Scotland Yard detective asleep on my doorstep. Would you like to come in?”

“God, yes.” He stepped into the house and instinct drove him upstairs to look at a flat that would never again see its tenants.

“Oh, John and Sherlock aren’t due home for a while, Greg!” Mrs Hudson called up after him. He choked and gripped the bannister so tightly he felt splinters in his fingers.

“I know, I just…I need to see if I left something here the last time I visited.” He lied shakily and unlocked the door to 221B. The flat was dark and quiet, waiting for residents who would never come home. He turned on the work-table lamp and sat down, first on the couch, but finally in John's chair. He couldn't sit still, though, and wandered the flat for a while, digging up one of Sherlock's cigarette stashes. Without thinking, he stole one and settled in John's chair with a little clay ashtray one of the kids had made for Sherlock as a Christmas present one year. And how the boys had never indulged in their bad habit around the kids. Ever. Mrs Hudson came up fifteen minutes later with tea and found him reading one of John's diaries.

“Are you alright, Greg?” Intuitive woman, she had probably noticed right away that something wasn't on with him. He looked up as she set a cup of tea on the small table beside him.

“Oh, thank you, Mrs Hudson. No. I'm...well, no, I'm not fine. I'd be lying to all of us if I said that.” He looked at the diary in his hands and stroked the pages full of familiar handwriting, “I'm...I guess it had better be me you hear this from, my dear.”

“The boys?”

“Something's happened, Mrs Hudson. Yesterday, I think. Maybe the day before, I can't account for the difference in time-zones like that or when it happened.” he folded his hands just so, pressing shaking fingertips to his lips, “I can't think straight, I haven't slept in eighteen hours.”

“Oh, dear.”

“John's unit came under attack from insurgents. John and Sherlock are missing now, and we don’t know where they are or what their status is. His commanding officer came by the house to give us the news in person this morning.” He took the kind woman's hands in his, “Please, sit down, Mrs Hudson? I'm so sorry.”

“No, no! It can't be! I just spoke to them!”

“Two days ago. Yes. We all did.” He shook his head, “My god, I'm so sorry. I figured you'd better hear from me than someone else. I haven’t told anyone else. I haven’t been to The Yard yet, no one there knows.”

“Oh, Greg! Those poor boys!” Mrs Hudson covered her face with her apron, “What a terrible thing! Oh, I can't imagine…”

“Don't think too hard on it, you'll only make yourself sick.” He hugged Mrs Hudson, “What do you think you'll do with the flat?”

“Oh, leave it alone! No, I won't rent it to anyone else!” She shook her head violently, “No, this place is John and Sherlock's! It's just that…simple. I'll leave things just as they are.”

“God bless you, Mrs Hudson.”

“Those boys saved me, they made this a safe place for me to live.” She wiped her eyes, “Oh, all the people they saved! The brave things they did together! And those cases for you?”

“I know. I'm going to miss having them around.” He sighed, rubbing his hands together, “I'm sorry I had to give you such bad news, Mrs Hudson.”

“I'm glad you told me before I found out some other way.” She smiled bravely and patted his hand, “You're a good soul, Greg Lestrade.” After a quiet, contemplative cup of tea, Greg decided to go home and Mrs Hudson called him a cab so he wouldn't have to walk back to Kensington. Once he got home, all there was left to do was swallow new tears and sleep if he could. Tomorrow would be a new day, and a hard one for Greg. Word was unlikely to reach his coworkers so quickly, so he would have to _gently_ break the news to those who had known and worked with John and Sherlock for years. It was telling Sally Donovan he wasn’t really looking forward to.

 

 

 


	4. An Interlude of Feline Purr-suasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so...break up in the sadness for a mo. I'm not entirely certain where this one came from, but I figured Mycroft and Greg could probably use some relief. Uh, fuzzy relief? A bit of case-fic, I guess. Back to the boys in the next chapter, I promise. Greg Lestrade is a cat-person, and somehow Mycroft Holmes missed that.

* * *

 ***

* * *

 The next morning dawned cloudy, grey, and foggy. Perfect weather for the mood. Getting out of bed was so much harder than it should have been and the hot shower couldn't get rid of the chill in his bones. Getting dressed, he ate a small breakfast of toast and orange juice and gathered his things. The drive in to work was quiet, and he sat in his car after parking and cried. The division offices were quiet, but just a normal post-weekend quiet, not the kind of quiet that came from bad news. Greg didn't see Sally at her desk and checked his watch. It was too early for her to come in yet. Hell, the sun hadn’t even really come up yet and wasn’t likely to burn through the cloud-cover until noon, if it ever did. He knew it would get quiet around The Yard for the next week or so as word got around about the boys. It would probably take a while for him to stop calling or texting the boys' phone-numbers to ask for help on a case or stop by the flat. He would stop by for Mrs Hudson's sake, of course, but it would be so hard to know that there was no one in the upstairs rooms at Baker Street.

“Don't worry, boys, whoever did this to you will pay for it.” He made a promise out loud as he looked at a picture someone had taken of the boys standing in front of a Humvee in full gear, wearing identical bright smiles and flashing the camera a victory sign. It was a few years old, but it told so much of their story, it was one of his favourite pictures. There was another one in the same frame of John sitting on Sherlock's shoulders, the two of them splattered with mud from head to toe from an Armed Forces Mud Run they'd taken part in a while back, same bright, goofy smiles. Memories, pictures, and their tags were all Greg had left of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes until the boys came home alive or in flag-draped boxes.

***

It was noon before he had a reason to leave his office for more than a trip to the loo or to get coffee. He hated the stuff they brewed at the office, but it would have to do. He was working on an old case when a call came through. A murder on Ansdell Terrace. Not even three hundred fucking yards from his own house! Jesus. Rallying his team, he grabbed his coat and badge, looked out the window to get a feel for what the weather was doing, and grabbed the umbrella hanging on his coat-tree. It was one Mycroft had given him for his birthday, nearly identical to his own. The only difference between Greg's umbrella and Mycroft's was the handle, Greg's handle was moulded Damascus steel shaped like a koi fish. It was a private joke of theirs, and not the only goldfish-themed item Greg owned that Mycroft had gifted to him.

The drive out was quiet and he didn’t miss how Sally kept looking at him sideways, trying to look uninterested. About halfway to the scene, he got sick of the tension and drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel.

“What?”

“Sir?”

“You’ve been looking at me like you expect me to keel over for about an _hour_ , Donovan. What?” He didn’t _mean_ to snap, really he didn’t.

“Sorry. It’s just…you seem a bit off your game today, boss.” She chose her words carefully, she did that when he was in a bad mood, “Everything alright at home?”

“It’s fine, Donovan.” He growled, steering through another intersection without thinking about it. He knew every intersection and roundabout between New Scotland Yard and his house, the timing of the lights, and could do the drive without thinking about it.

“Are you sure?” Smart girl, too smart even. No wonder John and Sherlock liked her so much. He grimaced. The boys’ tags sat cool against his skin under his shirt and he clenched his jaw against another bout of tears. He had work to do, it was time to focus. But Sally wasn’t going to let this go without some kind of answer. So, at another light, he pulled the tags over his head and looked at them for a minute. The clatter of metal got Sally’s attention, and her eyes widened she saw the tags. “Are those…”

"Identification tags." Greg held the tags out and dropped them into Sally's hand as they reached the turn from Kensington High Street to Victoria Road. She studied the tags, noticed right away that they did not match, and looked at him again, that familiar panic settling into her eyes.

“They’re not…”

“No, just missing.” He sighed, “At least, that’s what they told us. Colonel Moran paid us a visit yesterday to inform us that John and Sherlock went missing three days ago after an ambush killed eighteen of their men. No one knows for sure if they’re just MIA or dead, and we won’t know until we find bodies or the boys surface.”

“Oh my god!”

“ _You_ asked, Sally.” He parked near the house and got out first, waiting for Sally. “The Army is treating John and Sherlock as dead, as casualties.”

“But they don’t have bodies!”

“They must have had something, where did these tags come from?” He took the tags back and looped them around his neck again, “Something’s not right, but Mycroft’s looking into the incident reports and going back over Moran’s service-records.”

“Who would _do_ such a thing? Was it staged?”

“Most likely.” He opened his umbrella to ward off the rain, “Come on, then.” It was a quiet walk from the car up to the scene on Ansdell Terrace. He ducked under the tape with Sally, already in work-mode, “Where are we, what do we have?”

“Uh, up there, sir.” A helpful constable pointed to the house in question, “Mr Anderson and his team are already inside.”

“I figured they would be. Lead on.” He muttered, “Christ, I hate my day.”

“Everything alright, sir?” The young constable asked tamely, “You look a bit not good.”

“Hmm. Where’s Holliday? Is he still around?”

“In his car, sir. Want me to send him in?”

“Yes, thank you.” Greg stood under the eaves of 24 Ansdell Terrace to shake rain from his umbrella and close it, and flicked his coat to shake off the few drops that had made their way under the black shield. Inside, he met Robert Dimmock, taking over as lead detective.

“Where are we, Dimmock?”

“Downstairs, sir.” Dimmock led the way to a downstairs bathroom and Greg groaned when he saw the body. The victim had been killed in the shower-stall and propped up in a seated position in the corner of the stall. A length of rope had been tied around his neck and strung across to the curtain-rod, but the victim hadn’t been hung. Strangled, but not hung, the curtain-rod wouldn't have supported that kind of weight.

“Why is it _always_ the fucking bathroom?! Do murderers have no creativity? Jesus.” He rubbed his jaw with one hand, well-aware that his hand was still shaking. “God, I wish we had Sherlock.” He didn’t even realize he’d said the words until they were out of his mouth.

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. Not. Dead. He kept repeating the words in his head. He paced the bathroom scene, “You know what, I’m cheating. I don’t have Sherlock to call on, but I’ve got the next best thing. Hang on.” Pulling out his mobile-phone, he snapped a few pictures of the scene, fired them off to Mycroft, and waited. It didn't take long for his husband to call him, he answered right away.

 _“Give me what you’ve got.”_ As he’d hoped, Mycroft fired off a series of perfect Holmesian deductions, practically solving the case from just up the street, and Greg heaved a sigh of relief, _“God, I’ve been around you too long, My. I saw that, but I figured a second opinion wouldn't hurt.”_

_“You’re a smart man, Gregory Lestrade. That’s why I married you.”_

_“You’re good to me, My. Thanks for your help. Any progress?”_

_“Not yet. But we’ll find them, if they don’t show themselves in time.”_

_“Figures. Just had to ask. Thanks.”_ He cleared his throat as he hung up and looked at Sally and Dimmock, “So, that was easy.”

“What are we looking at?”

“David McMullin, age 40, lives alone, few friends. No family. Keeps two cats.”

“We…didn’t see any cats.” Dimmockfrowned, “How do you know he had cats?”

“Small scratches on his hands and forearms and on his neck. These were all play-scratches, these weren’t intentional. And there’s hair-fibers on his clothes.” He used the umbrella for a brace and crouched beside the body as he pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, “Get me a piece of clear tape, love?”

“Sure thing.” Sally disappeared, coming back a minute later with a roll of clear packing-tape, and he ripped off a piece to collect some of the hair-fibers he’d seen on Mr McMullin’s clothes, which he then secured to a small evidence card and slid into an envelope, writing down what the sample was, who had taken it, and where it had been taken from. He also dated the sample. Leaving the bathroom, he combed the rest of the flat for evidence of McMullin’s cats. There were plenty of pictures, so he had obviously been very fond of his cats, a pair of gorgeous adopted strays. A blue-eyed Tortie calico with beautiful markings and a white blaze on her chin and chest, and a silvery Russian Blue.

“Gorgeous animals.” He saw evidence of the cats in the apartment and wondered if they’d slipped out in the chaos. Going upstairs, he asked if anyone had seen two cats run out the door. No, not out the front. He went out to the patios to see if the cats had gone into hiding in the back. No luck. Their cages weren’t missing, but that didn’t rule out someone stealing the cats. But why? What motive would someone, who _knew_ McMullin, have for kidnapping his pets?

 

After working over the scene as best he was able inside, Greg went out and stood on the sidewalk, holding the open umbrella with the crook of his arm as he lit a cigarette. As he stood at the end of the street, mulling over the evidence and possible motives, he was aware of a faint mewling sound. His attention switched in a heartbeat and he spun towards the sound. There was a small gate behind him, beyond which lay a private residential car park. Greg leaned over the fence and scoured the area for any sign of the source of that noise. Tucked against the wheel-well of the car parked beyond, sitting at a haphazard angle, was a blue plastic refuse-bag. It twitched and moved, and the sound continued.

“Christ! The cats!” he gasped. Several people turned at his outburst, but he ignored them all as he figured out how to jump the fence and fetch up the bag. It heaved and swayed as the unwilling occupants reacted. He carefully handed the bag to Rick Holliday, who held it at arm’s length while he hopped back over the fence.

“Jesus, sir! What’s in here?”

“Mr McMullin’s cats. Start questioning the neighbours. Someone _had_ to have seen something, heard something.” He pointed out the target houses he wanted his crew to hit for questioning, “Get people talking. See if McMullin had any partners or acquaintances with a grudge to bear and a serious dislike of his cats.”

“Where are you going, sir?”

“To cage the cats and get them out of here.” He headed back into the house, grabbed the two cages, and headed for one of the empty bedrooms. Once inside, he locked all doors, blocking every possible exit, and opened the bag, freeing the two freaked-out inhabitants.

“Easy, kids.” He stood by the door, watching them flail and riot. After a while, he dusted the carpet with cat-nip and let nature run its course. Distracted by cat-nip, the pair was soon on a kitty-high and he coaxed them into their cages. Or tried to, but they decided that the stranger who had saved them was far more interesting and he ended up sitting against the wall as they explored him.

“Boy, you two are lucky I like cats.” He chuckled and scratched the Tortie behind her ears. “You’re cute.” The Tortie's name was Lucky, short for Miss Kitty Happy-Go-Lucky, and the Russian Blue was named Balto, for Lady Balto McCatterick of Kensington. The obnoxious names made him laugh. McMullin had loved his cats, obviously, and they were used to strangers, not terribly skittish once they realized that Greg wanted to help them, not harm them. He took their collars for evidence, knowing that the suspect had to have grabbed them by the scruff to capture them, so there might be DNA on the collars, They were added to the hair-fibers he had collected earlier, along with the rope used to strangle Mr McMullin.

 

He finally caged the cats and had them taken out to Holliday’s car. With the cats secure, he got the updates from Holliday, who he _still_ remembered as a strung-out, twitchy teenager messing with the wrong crowds. But those days were far behind them and Rick Holliday was one of his best constables.

“What happens to the cats now that David McMullin is deceased?” Holliday asked, turning his collar up against the rain. Greg smiled and tipped his umbrella a bit to offer his constable protection from the rain. He got a timid, grateful nod of thanks for the gesture.

“Not a clue, but I can’t handle the thought of abandoning them to Animal Control.” He huffed, taking a drag on his cigarette. There was a bit of a commotion at the bottom of the street, and he looked over his shoulder to see Mycroft standing on the other side of the tape-line. “Oh, for…Jesus. What is _he_ doing here? Baldwin! Let him through!” He signalled the line-minders to let his husband pass.

“Yes, sir.” Margaret Baldwin held the tape-line for Mycroft, who graced her with a smile and a nod.

“Mr Holmes.” He said calmly as Mycroft reached them.

“Inspector.” Mycroft’s eyes lit up. “Mr Holliday.”

“Sir.” Holliday grinned, “Fancy seeing you round here.”

“I live down the street, Constable. I saw the lights and came to investigate. Trouble doesn’t come this close to home too often.” Mycroft looked at Greg, who simply raised an eyebrow, “Not to mention,  _this_ one parked his car outside the house to walk up, how could I miss something like that? Lights on and everything.” So? Was _that_ really a problem? There were far worse crimes of poor judgment than taking advantage of parking at his own house to get in a bit of exercise, never mind the weather.

“No ident on the killer yet, but it was a domestic.” Greg shrugged, “I’ve got a bit of a furry problem, though.”

“McMullin’s cats.” Mycroft chuckled, “You’re not going to surrender them to Animal Control, are you?”

“Not if I can avoid it, it wouldn't be fair. They’re very house-bound, and something that traumatic would be devastating.” He shrugged, passing his cigarette to Mycroft, who took it with a wink. “And there’s no promise they would be adopted together.”

“Is it imperative that they stay together?”

“And out of kenneling? Yes.”

“You...like cats.” This was apparently news to his husband, which amused Greg greatly.

“I like dogs, cats, just about anything fuzzy on four legs.” He shrugged, “Their names are Lucky and Balto. Lucky reminds me a bit of John.”

“And Balto of Sherlock?” Mycroft looked at him, already knowing exactly what he wasn’t asking for.

“Yeah. To put not too fine a point on it. I had a hell of a time caging them, by the way.” He folded his arms, “Does this mean we get to give these two cats a loving home and more spoiling than they can handle?”

“Of course it does. And no one is going to mind at all.”

“Hell if they do. My scene, my claim. I’ll file the paperwork later.” Most of the cat things had been collected for evidence, but he staked a claim and pulled those things away.

“None of this goes to evidence aside from the collars, which they will be getting new ones anyway. I’m taking the cats and giving them a new home.”

“Yes, sir.” There was very little objection, Sally Donovan just smirked. With a heavy heart, he released the scene to forensics and headed for the office to get the paperwork out of the way. Word had gotten out fast that he wasn’t to be bothered for anything, so he got his work done fairly quickly. What had started out as an awful day had turned into a not-so-terrible day, and he had two affectionate cats and a loving husband to go home to, so there wasn’t _too_ much to complain about. However, when a thought struck him to ask the boys for advice, he remembered what had happened and fiddled with the tags around his neck.

After doing as much work as he could get out of the way before Billingsley kicked him out, Greg headed home around eight pm. It was a quiet night in, the cats kept them entertained, having adjusted _very_ quickly and very well to their new home. Mycroft said it was because they were still together. There were bound to be incidents, as was routine with pets, but nothing they couldn't handle. Lucky and Balto were both house-broken, and enjoyed being indoor-outdoor cats. It didn’t take long to realize that McMullin had somehow toilet-trained the cats to use a regular human toilet to do their business, including lifting and lowering the lid, and flushing. Smart damn cats.

***

Following the ambush that killed eighteen British soldiers and put two on the lists as Missing In Action/Killed In Action, Mycroft Holmes put a flag on Sebastian Moran's records and started digging. If Moran was really involved in the attack that had killed John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, he wanted to know every gritty detail. He would save the information for future use, but he would be more than happy to see to the man's discharge from the Army if he toed the wrong line. It was said in the halls of Westminster Palace and MI6 that the worst thing you could do was put yourself on Mycroft's radar for doing something stupid, and threatening the lives of his loved ones was a first-class ticket to a world of hurting.


	5. Holding Hands With Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson remembered dying, he remembered it as clearly as any other recent memory. He remembered where he had died, who he’d been with, how he had died, and who had killed him. So, with this in mind, he was understandably confused to wake up again in a small, dusty bedroom on a narrow bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I reassure my readers that I will never, EVER, hurt the boys or their loved ones like that without a way out! I have this habit of killing off MCs and feeling sick about it later, but I don't usually find ways to bring them back like this. I had plans for this whole story, but the boys had other ideas and...well, here we are.  
> ***  
> "Italics" = phone/radio conversation  
> Bold = text messaging  
> Bold/Italics = handwritting  
> <“text inside these brackets is spoken Dari”>  
> ***  
> EDITING DONE!! Did some reworking of this chapter, and as a result, Chapter 6 will be removed and replaced! Stay tuned, this story resurrected itself a bit and with The Ties of Blood and Water complete (part 2 is in the works right now), I can focus on Of Two Friends Against The World a bit more now.

* * *

John Watson remembered dying, he remembered it as clearly as any other recent memory. He remembered where he had died, who he’d been with,  _how_ he had died, and who had killed him. So, with this in mind, he was understandably confused to wake up again in a small, dusty bedroom on a narrow bed. Sitting up didn’t hurt nearly as much as it should have, and he leaned against the wall, folding his legs beneath him to watch Sherlock, who slept on another narrow bed across the room. His throat was dry and he had a headache, there was a mild twinge in his shoulder. A bandage had been wrapped around his shoulder, and he plucked at the edges. John noticed right away that his tags were missing. He seemed to remember Moran stealing their tags before disappearing into the desert, and wondered what the hell that maniac had done with their tags. Had he gone to their families and lied? It made him so  _mad_ to think that their names would be written down under the Missing In Action/Killed In Action headings. Would Mycroft look for them? Would he believe whatever shill Moran told them,  _if_ he told them? 

It was very quiet in the room and John could hear almost everything. The sounds of the house’s regular inhabitants going about their business quietly, the steady thrum of a human heartbeat. Curious, for it was very clear, John pressed one hand to his chest, where his heart should be working, but it was nearly still beneath his fingers. Odd. But, he wasn’t  _dead_ , so why the stillness? Then, he caught a whiff of something rich and sweet. As a soldier and a doctor, he was quite familiar with the scent of blood. As he recognized the smell, John suddenly realized what had happened. Leaning his head back, he chuckled.

“What luck, what completely ridiculous luck. Sherlock?”

“You’re thinking too loud.”

“That’s not about to change. At least, not until I figure out how to muffle it.” He closed his eyes as someone knocked on the door. 

<“You can come in. It is safe.”> In response to his summons, the door opened and a young woman in hijab, her face covered by blue cotton, stepped into the room. She bowed, averting her eyes.  
  
<“Good morning.”> Her voice was soft and musical, <“My father wishes to know if his guests are hungry.”>The girl was in her early to mid-twenties, unmarried, third of six children and four daughters. She was rightfully beautiful, the kind of girl John enjoyed taking for a tumble between the sheets, slender with just the right amount of body-fat, tall for her ethnicity and sex. But John wouldn't touch her in any way without her father’s permission. He and Sherlock still needed protection.

<“Go and bring your father here.”> He nodded to the open door, <“I must ask him questions.”>The girl bowed again and left the room, calling to someone outside in the hall. A moment later, the girl’s father entered the room and John recognized him. On the other side of the room, Sherlock gasped. Seeing them both awake, the man smiled.

“It is a blessing to see you awake again, Watson. How are you?” He spoke passable English, better than many natives.

“I am blessed to be well. Weak, but I am well.” He inclined his head, “Thank you for your hospitality, Sabri, you didn’t have to risk your family’s safety for two British soldiers.”

“It is a risk we took on gladly! As soon as my boy Hassan came to tell us you were in trouble, I knew what I had to do.” Sabri Malek came across the room and took John’s hand in his, “I have summoned a friend to us both, she will help you learn your way. My children will tend to your needs until you are able to leave us.”

“Thank you, Sabri. We are indebted to your care and kindness.” Sherlock spoke up then, “Peace and prosperity be upon you and your household.” It was the kindest Sherlock ever was around foreigners, but their relationship with Sabri Malek al-Muhamed and his family was unique. They had known the family for almost as long as they had served deployments in Afghanistan, and Sabri was a useful contact for how things were going in the village of Bijrah and the surrounding towns.

John and Sherlock talked with Sabri until Sabri’s friend arrived was shown into the bedroom by Sabri’s daughter, Hilmiya, who had come to see if they were awake before. John looked at Sherlock, who sat beside him now on the narrow bed, and raised an eyebrow.

<“Peace be upon you.”> They greeted the woman who had come into the room in unison.

<“And upon you, peace.”> She returned their greeting, given in fluent Arabic, and turned to Sabri’s family, who had gathered in the doorway. <“You may wait until you are summoned. Your assistance will be required shortly.”>

<“Yes, Elder.”> Sabri bowed respectfully, <“We will wait as we must.”>It was strange to hear Sabri address Laila Saladin as Elder, but despite her apparent youth, she was the oldest person in the house, older even than Sabri’s grandfather, who lived with the family. It was quiet as the door closed, leaving John and Sherlock with someone they had taken very different kind of lessons from once upon a time.

“By the fortune of the Forefathers, it does my heart good to see you both alive.”

“All those times you told us to stay out of trouble, and here we are.” Sherlock stretched his arms above his head with a lazy yawn, “It’s good to see a friendly, familiar face, Doctor Saladin. To what do we owe the inestimable pleasure of your company?”

“You know damn well what I’m doing here, you two.” She pushed back the hood of her hijab and removed the scarf that covered her face, “A little respect wouldn't do you wrong, Sherlock Holmes.” John got up with far more ease than he thought he should have and took Saladin’s hand in both of his, offering a proper kiss to the back.

“You’ll forgive him, won’t you, my lady?”

“I always forgive my most stubborn children.” She smiled and ran her fingers through John’s hair with cool fingers, which now felt warm to the touch. Another sign that his genetic mutation had kicked in at a crucial moment and kept him, more or less, alive to fight another day. He had done his research on vampires and knew there were two ways vampires came to be: they were born, or they were made. Vampires who were born were usually mortals with a vampire bloodline in their family tree, but it was rare to meet the First Vampire of any given family tree. At least, John hadn’t met anyone who could make that claim. John knew that there had been vampires in the Watson family-tree in the past, but by record, it had been several generations since the last of them. And most of the Watson vampires were born. To be born a vampire, the mortal in question usually had to die first. Well, John had certainly died. And so had Sherlock. He licked his teeth and grimaced at the ache in his throat, coughing.

“I will summon Hilmiya and Muneer so that you made feed.” Saladin smiled and went to the door, opening it to bring in the twins. The first real feeding passed in a blur, with Saladin teaching them the ins and outs of proper feeding technique, how to glamour their chosen provider and get them relaxed. John had a head-start on reading signals and cues with his medical background, and he noticed that right around the time the blood lost its sweetness was when it was usually a good idea to stop. Sherlock was already a picky eater, which made it fairly simple for  _him_  as well. It also helped a great deal that they were already familiar with their providers, there was a trust element there that John thought was rather important.

It was a month before John and Sherlock moved on from Bijrah. They moved in disguise, and no one recognized them as they very rarely bared their heads or spoke English. They were both already tan due to service in Afghanistan, so they didn’t draw  _that_ much attention when they were among Westerners, who usually mistook them as light-skinned locals. Sometimes they would serve as translators between the Afghanis and the Westerners. No one ever seemed to find them out, and they kept dodging Mycroft Holmes’ agents. Not entirely on purpose, it just seemed to happen that they stayed under the radar.

 ***

Finally, in August, four months after they were listed Missing In Action on all official records and Killed In Action on others despite the lack of bodies to send home, John decided it was time to go home to London. They had been gone long enough and Sherlock had announced that if his nosy older brother  _still_ didn’t know they were alive, then that was his own damn fault for not paying attention. So, they bought tickets on an international flight, used passports that had different names to get through customs without raising any suspicions, and returned to their long-missed England.

After an uneventful flight they slept through the majority of, John and Sherlock made their way through customs at Heathrow, collected their luggage, and headed for home. It was almost eight pm when they left the airport. As they hailed a cab outside the terminal, John rocked back on his heels.

“Baker Street or Paddington?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked at him, he raised an eyebrow.

“Baker Street, and risk scaring the soul out of poor Mrs Hudson, or Paddington, to the Devonshire Terrace house?” He frowned, “Jesus, I need a smoke.”

“There’s a stash at the Paddington house, and plenty at Baker Street.”

“Let’s avoid scaring any of our loved ones into a hospital-stay just for now.” John picked up his one bag, giving it to the warder as he slid into the taxi that had pulled up for them, “17 Devonshire Terrace, please.” The cabbie just nodded and once Sherlock was in, they got underway. When they reached the house in Paddington, John spent a moment standing on the street, looking up at the windows of the houses here, quietly ignoring the itch in the back of his throat and the way his mouth watered at the scent of so much living blood in such close quarters. He leaned his head back, listening to the sounds around him, “There’s a few Yarders three blocks over on a domestic call, and…I’ll be damned, Greg’s out.”

“Where is he?” Sherlock stood by him, one hand on his arm.

“He’s close. He has no idea.”

“Of course not.” Sherlock hugged him, “Come inside, your eyes just turned black.” Suddenly, the hair on the back of John’s neck prickled and he heard something in the distance that he would never have heard before now.

“They need help.” He murmured, running inside the house. In a bedroom closet, following his nose to a room that smelled more like him, he found clean clothes. Pulling on a pair of denims, a clean shirt, and a grey hoodie, he pulled on clean socks and a pair of Doc Martens, laced them up quickly, fetched a leather jacket, and ran out of the house again before anyone could stop him. Sherlock was right behind him in very similar garb. If no one looked at their faces too closely, they’d pass up well for a pair of Sherlock’s Homeless Network.

“John, where are we  _going_? This is a terrible idea!”

“Making Greg’s job a bit easier. After the last few months he’s had, I don’t think a gift or two would go amiss.” He kept running, following his instincts towards a crime-scene three blocks away. They found Greg and Sally running down an escaped suspect, and John skidded. “Sherlock?”

“Allow me.” His tall friend grinned, a peek of his sharp fangs visible in the ambient light.

“Just don’t hurt him, right?”

“That’s not my job.” Sherlock winked and vanished in the suspect’s wake, moving faster than their mortal friends ever could. It didn’t take long for the winded Yarders to reach John, and they were too focused on finding their suspect to really pay attention to him. He used that distraction to steal Greg’s handcuffs and get them to Sherlock, who had run the suspect down in an alleyway and was holding him still by sitting on his back. Throwing Sherlock the handcuffs, he ran back to where Greg and Sally had stopped to catch their breath and get a heading. He stopped at the end of the block from them and walked down at a casual pace, knowing they would see him that way. John knew that once he was done with his good deed for the night, he and Sherlock would need to feed properly. The smell of familiar blood was driving him a little crazy. As Greg and Sally chatted in low voices no other passers-by would hear, but John heard perfectly, he stopped at Greg’s shoulder and carefully tapped the detective on the shoulder.

“Sorry to bother you, mate.” He said quietly, “Got a smoke, sir?”

“Hmm? Oh, Christ! I didn’t see you!” Greg blinked at him, startled that someone had snuck up on him like that, “Jesus! Yeah, hang on.” He shook his head, rustling through his pockets, “Here. Hey, you, uh. Sorry to bother  _you_ , son. You haven’t seen a fellow run through here, have you?”

“What’s he look like? I see lots of people on these streets.” He shrugged and shook out two cigarettes, sliding a fifty-pence piece into the pack for the second one, and borrowed Greg’s lighter, “Thanks, mate.” Adrenaline and nicotine dampened his desire to feed, he noticed, which was interesting and useful.

“Uh, guy’s about...your height, actually. Dark hair, real short, fair skin with bad acne scars on the forehead and nose. Green eyes.” Greg had taken a cigarette for himself, so he’d started again. He usually did that if the stress got too bad.

“Left eye’s lazy, got a slight limp in the right leg from a bad-healed old break. Yeah. Seen him. Went that way.” John thumbed over his shoulder in the direction Sherlock had gone. “Steal somethin’, sir?” He smoothly took the lighter from shaky fingers and held the flame to the end of Greg's cigarette. 

“Ta. Nah, he killed someone. I’ve about had enough death for the year, but it’s the job.” Greg shrugged, fighting the end of a string of cases that had kept him up for nearly a week straight. “You got a name, son?”

“Friends call me Skip.”

“Right.” Greg nodded, a bit unfocused. John could tell he was tired, all he wanted was to go home, take a hot shower, and curl up under the blankets with Mycroft. Poor bloke hadn’t seen Mycroft in a week at least, that’s just how busy both of them had been.

“Somethin’ on your mind, Detective?”

“Nah. Nothing to bother you with, son.” Greg looked around, “Where’d you say you saw that idiot run?”

“That way.” He pointed the way, “I’ll take you.”

“Thanks.” Greg motioned for him to lead the way, and they caught up with the suspect in no time. Getting eyes on the suspect, Greg called for a uniformed car to meet them. It didn’t take long, and John took back the handcuffs he had stolen from Greg earlier. He didn’t return them yet, though.

Thanking him for his help, Greg left with a tired wave, heading back to New Scotland Yard to finish his paperwork. Once Greg and Sally were gone, he waited for Sherlock on a nearby rooftop.

“Nice move, John.”

“Poor man didn’t know it was me. I mean, he’ll be seeing my face in every short, blonde-haired man he meets for a while, so that’s fine.” John folded his hands behind his back, jingling the handcuffs. “So, how long do you think it’ll take him to realize he’s lost his handcuffs?”

“As long as it takes him to realize he lost his badge, too.”

“Oh, Sherlock!” John rolled his eyes, “You did  _not_ steal his badge!” Sherlock did not give him the dignity of a response, simply flashing the badge at him with a smug grin, “Oh, you bastard. Both on the same night, he’ll notice.”

“Probably when he gets home.” Sherlock chuckled. John shook his head.

“Come on, you.” He grabbed Sherlock by the sleeve and headed for New Scotland Yard. They ran, beating Greg by several minutes, put the badge and handcuffs in a small white evidence box, sealed it, and left it on his desk with a new pack of cigarettes tucked inside with the badge and handcuffs and a note taped to the lid.

They had keys to all of the interview-rooms, conference-rooms, offices, and storerooms in The Yard, having stolen and duplicated the Commissioner’s key-ring years ago, so no one saw or stopped them as they did their business. They were in and out in ten minutes, Greg never saw them. As they walked up Victoria, away from New Scotland Yard, John shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned his head back to look at the sky.

“Hungry?” He asked Sherlock after a while. He was hoarse with that necessary need, and he knew London was no stranger to the needs of his kind.

“Starving. Shall we?”

“Where on earth would we  _go_?”

“There’s a few clubs around town that cater to our kind. I know the owner of one of them.”

“Let me guess, you did them a favour once?”

“Something like that.” Sherlock grinned, “I guarantee our secret is safe with our new kin.”

“It had better be.” He muttered. They used the rooftops to get where they were going, an old and exhilarating way to get around London, and by the time they stood outside a nondescript building, John was hoarse with a necessary urge. The establishment was in the basement, small but not overcrowded.

“This is one of the smaller establishments.”

“What’s this place called?”

“This is Sunrise.”

“Ironic name.” John snickered, Sherlock rolled his eyes. They paid a small cover-fee and found a corner table in the club. It was more like a cafe or a restaurant than a real  _club_ , but the owner appeared at their table in a human heartbeat, all smiles and genuine delight to see Sherlock.

“Sherlock, you scoundrel!”

“Hello, Laurena.” Sherlock smiled sweetly at the woman, rising to kiss the back of her hand, “My friend and I need your services tonight.”

“Yes, yes, I can see that. It is a delight to see you among us at last, Doctor Watson.”

“My pleasure, madam.” John mimicked Sherlock’s polite gestures, “It’s nice to be here outside of work.”

“It’s a joy to have you both!” Laurena kissed him on the cheek, “Make yourselves at home, I’ll be right back!” John sat on the inside curve of the bench, giving himself a completely unobstructed view of the venue and a straight shot to the door.

“Old habits, eh?” Sherlock grinned as he shrugged off and hung up his jacket, “Here, I’ll take your coat.”

“Thanks, mate.” John sighed and got a feel for the place, “I’d forgotten about Laurena Roddick.”

“She didn’t forget you.”

“Apparently not.” He chuckled, “So, how long do you think it’s going to take Greg?”

“As long as it takes to find our little gift.” Sherlock shrugged and drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. Laurena came back in short order with two glasses, setting one each before them.

“There you are, boys!” She tucked the tray under her arm, “Any word you have for the Network, Sherlock?”

“Not for a bit.” Sherlock sipped at his glass, and John took a careful sip of  _his_. Oh, yes. He knew a proper feeding was still needed, but this method of serving blood to vampires was good for taking off the initial edge. John knew that blood-donation centres with a surplus stock would sell to private buyers for places like Sunrise and for home-use. Once Laurena was gone to tend to her other customers, John remembered something.

“Oh, Sherlock?” When on earth would they return to Baker Street?

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked up at him, read that thought, and nodded, “Oh. Hmm. Before Christmas, I should think.”

“Let’s try to  _not_ give Mrs Hudson a heart-attack, if you don’t mind?”

“I make no promises. After all, we’re supposed to be  _dead_. Well, Missing In Action, technically.” Sherlock looked into his nearly-empty glass.

“Cheers.” He finished off what was left of his glass and licked his fingertips. Sherlock just smiled and they left a few bills under their glasses to pay. Collecting their coats, John followed Sherlock, who didn’t leave Sunrise, instead heading for the back of the space. Upstairs, it turned out, was a much  _larger_ club venue, a far more traditional club. John laughed.

“Jesus, Sherlock!”

“You’ve never been up here, have you?”

“Nope.”

“Come along.” Sherlock grinned, took him by the hand, and dragged him into the club after handing their coats off. The rest of the night passed in a blur, they were out until near dawn, wandering the streets of their city and re-familiarizing themselves with her many nooks and crannies.

***

While John and Sherlock re-familiarized themselves with a London they had never expected to see again, Greg Lestrade was scratching his head. He had chased down and lost a suspect earlier, but luck had been with him and one of Sherlock’s Homeless had come up good on leads. A friendly, youngish fellow named Skip had helped them out. Greg knew it was the recent loss of John Watson that had him seeing the charismatic soldier in every blonde on the street, Skip could have been John’s twin. He didn’t think much of it, though, he had a suspect to catch. Or, at least, pick up. Someone had left him a nice little gift in an alleyway behind a rubbish-skip. Hand-cuffed and unconscious, he’d found his suspect with a note pinned to his jacket.

 

_**For Detective Inspector Lestrade** _

_**Jeremy Plaith. All yours, Detective. Good luck.** _

 

Someone had stolen  _his_ handcuffs, it was anyone's guess when that had happened, caught up with the suspect, subdued him, and left him to be collected by New Scotland Yard. Before he could stop himself, Greg found himself sending a text to Sherlock’s phone.

 

**So, just solved a case thanks to your people. Youngish kid named Skip, kind of looks like John a bit. I guess two of yours were in the area when we went to serve Jeremy Plaith, who will spend the rest of his miserable short life behind bars now, but we caught our man and someone stole my handcuffs. Still haven’t seen ‘em. I wish you could have helped out, mate. You’d have loved this. – GL**

 

It was hard to know he wouldn't be getting a response, but it felt right to send that text. As he got into his office, he realized that he was still missing his hand-cuffs, andnow his badge was gone.

“Oh, for…” He checked all of his pockets to no avail, and groaned, “Jesus Christ.” But the sight of a small white box on his desk gave him pause. Oh, wait. He picked up the box, and something occurred to him. There was a note taped to the lid of the box, and he pulled it off as he opened the box itself. Inside the box were his handcuffs, his badge, and an unopened pack of cigarettes.

 

_**For Detective Inspector Lestrade** _

_**Thought you might be missing these after tonight’s excitement. Sound the streets for Skip and Scotty if you need an extra hand or two. Don’t forget the Homeless Network, we will always be your eyes and ears on the streets of London.** _

_**Yours, Skip** _

 

“Oh my god.” He looked at the familiar handwriting, it was the same handwriting on the note he’d found pinned to Jeremy Plaith’s jacket, whom he had only found because of the  _very_ helpful, and  _very_ concerned Skip. He hadn’t been formally introduced to Skip’s companion, but he had _seen_ the dark-haired man haunting around the perimeter of the scene. Thinking of something, Greg pulled up a bank of CCTV cameras that showed feeds from all over London. He isolated a series of cameras and went to grab a cup of coffee. While he was out, he checked on Sally, who was half-asleep at her desk. Shaking his head, he woke his diligent Sergeant up and sent her home for the night.

“Go on home, Sal. You’ve done all the good you can. I’ll finish up the Plaith case and see you in the morning.”

“You’re not going home, sir?”

“I’ve got a few things running to keep me here a bit longer. You get on, alright?” He smiled and kissed her on the cheek, “Say hi to Molly.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Sally got to her feet, shrugged into her coat, and headed out, “But don’t let me get back here in the morning to find you under your desk again.”

“Nah, I’ll go home tonight.” He promised, “See you tomorrow, Sally.”

“Good night, boss.” She waved as she left the dark bull-pen and he went back to his desk to see what results had popped up and if the cameras were showing the footage he wanted. There was nothing on Baker Street, no unusual activity on the street, but there was activity on a few of the Regent’s Park cameras. He tweaked one of the park cameras and grinned, chuckling into his coffee.

“Gotcha.” He murmured, “I knew you were out there somewhere.” He tracked Skip and Scotty across London for a while to pass the time while he finished up the Jeremy Plaith case.

 

It was almost midnight by the time he got home, and he was easily the last one out of the building. Mycroft was asleep, of course, so he made as little noise and commotion as he could. Some job had called Mycroft out earlier that night, but that was kind of normal for them, so he hadn’t bothered to ask. It wasn’t his business until his husband decided to make it so. He missed the boys, but he would move on with time. If he could only shake the feeling that they had missed something. Someone had underestimated the Baker Street Duo, it just stood to wait and see how. Cheating death was a pretty tall order. After closing up the house for the night, he went upstairs to the bedroom and quietly got ready for bed. But he knew better than to think his observant husband wasn’t _waiting_ for the sound of his car outside, the rattle of his key in the door downstairs, the quiet noise he made hanging his gear.

“Well,  _you’re_ home late.” Mycroft murmured sleepily, voice muffled by the comforter pulled almost over his head, “What on earth kept you at work so long?”

“Finished working the Jeremy Plaith case. Finally caught the fucking bastard tonight, I had to put all the paperwork in order.” He looked over his shoulder at the vague shape under the covers behind him and smiled, “It’s going to trial next, but that could take  _months_ , I wanted my bit ready to go so they don’t drag their heels because I forgot a period.”

“You know they’ll find something.”

“They always do.” He sighed, “Well, at least I got  _one_ criminal off the streets.”

“There’s something else, though.” Mycroft popped his head out from under the blankets as Greg shuffled into the loo to brush his teeth, “You’re too wired for the apprehension of Jeremy Plaith to be the only interesting thing that happened at work tonight.” Greg rolled his eyes as he rinsed and spit, frowning at his reflection in the mirror. He looked… _old_ , to put a word on it. Work and grieving for almost six months had done him very few favours. Rubbing a towel over his face and hair, Greg went out to the bedroom.

“A couple of Sherlock’s stepped in to help me catch Plaith. Only reason we caught the fucking bastard is because of those boys.” He chuckled, “They nicked my badge and handcuffs earlier tonight while I was chasing down Mr Plaith.”

“They  _did_?” Mycroft looked at him, eyes wide, “That was…brazen, especially for the Network. Did you get their names?”

“The streets call them Skip and Scotty. Very polite kids, they gave everything back in a neat little package, with a peace-offering of an unopened pack of cigarettes.”

“They must have been under strict orders to keep an eye on you.” Mycroft rolled over, “Have you _seen_ them before?”

“Not before tonight, no. They’re nice kids, though, I’ll definitely keep them in my back pocket for future cases.” He turned off the bedside lamp and got comfortable, “I think they’re vampires, but with street-names, I doubt they’re registered beyond the required minimum for their kind.” He had run into that issue before, but it wasn’t something he worried about too much.

“Sleep well tonight, Gregory, you’ve earned it.” Mycroft pulled him close and they fell asleep tangled like that. He slept until his alarm went off the next morning, and it was a new day, with new cases and new projects.

He thought about Skip and Scotty when he had a few minutes alone, but didn’t give too much attention to his new sources. He knew how to get to them if he needed them for something, but they were only as useful as the next case that had Greg scratching his head and wishing for John and Sherlock.


	6. Resurrection Recognized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They slid back into an old, familiar routine. Sherlock worked on experiments, John worked a regular job to pay the bills, and they fought over domestic issues like laundry, dishes, and the latest particularly gruesome experiment Sherlock had left unattended for John to find on the kitchen-table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Italics" = phone/radio conversation  
> Bold = text messaging  
> Bold/Italics = handwritting
> 
> EDITING HAS BEEN DONE!!! I didn't like the direction the story was taking, it was kind of losing focus on a side-story I loved, and might explore later, but I need focus here! So back to the drawing-board! Hope you all enjoy the updates! Please leave reviews, I love those, and it makes me happy to know people have enjoyed my story enough to tell me about it, or bring up a point about plot and such.

* * *

A month later, Laurena felt that John and Sherlock had enough self-control to return to routine. They went home to Baker Street first and startled sweet Mrs. Hudson, who reassured them that she had left everything just the way it was and had never really believed they were dead. She wasn’t sure anyone else had, either, come to think of it. They didn’t announce themselves to New Scotland Yard yet, continuing to work with Greg as Skip and Scotty, providing tips and fresh eyes when needed but keeping to themselves. When they weren’t running cases, they adapted to a new lifestyle, finding a feeding method that worked for them. The number of people willing to provide a vital service as “producers” was astonishing, and they found that with “sips” from willing producers, bagged blood they got from Laurena, and once-monthly feedings, they managed to fulfill their need for blood. They maintained a normal diet of mortal food, or at least John did, and it was right back to the old days of forcing Sherlock to eat occasionally.

They slid back into an old, familiar routine. Sherlock worked on experiments, John worked a regular job to pay the bills, and they fought over domestic issues like laundry, dishes, and the latest particularly gruesome experiment Sherlock had left unattended for John to find on the kitchen-table. It was a job he had quietly worked for years, and gotten back to as soon as he felt that he was less a threat to any of his coworkers. John actually worked as a forensic pathologist on a part-time basis. Technically he worked for the Coroner’s Office, and by proxy for The Met, but he saw more of Greg’s team than he saw of his office or an autopsy table. He knew Molly Hooper, who worked with him at Saint Bart’s, and considered her one of the most gifted pathologists he had ever met. Molly was the only person in the entire city who knew that John and Sherlock were alive. She had kept her peace, kept their dirty secret, and provided Sherlock with body-parts for his awful experiments, as well as leads on cases The Met was working separate from John’s work, although his case-load usually kept Sherlock sufficiently entertained.

And all the time, Mrs. Hudson fussed and twittered over the boys, making sure they took time to take care of themselves, forcing them to eat or sleep during a case or when they went too long without.

***

The first suicide occurred in October, two months after John and Sherlock returned London and one month after John returned to work with The Met. It was fairly unremarkable, Sherlock didn’t even rate it a four. The second suicide, a teenager, happened a month later in November, on the 26th. This time, it got the attention of the Baker Street boys because it was so similar to the first. Then a third in December, and a fourth that came right after in January. By now, the suicides had been re-classified as possible murders, as there were links between the deaths. No similarities in victims, but the cause of death was the same each time. Jeffrey Patterson died on 12 October, James Phillimore died on 26 November, and Rachel Westvalen on 22 December. All three had died of asphyxiation secondary to toxicity of unknown origin. John had worked each one of the cases, unknown to have done so by any of their Met connections, and was fairly certain they were dealing with a serial killer. So when New Scotland Yard announced the death of Beth Davenport on the night of 27 January, making the announcement the next day on the 28th, John and Sherlock just looked at each other.

“Serial killer.” Sherlock muttered, “Obviously.”

“Not to them it’s not.” John rolled his eyes and tossed another piece of popcorn into his mouth as they watched the press-conference. Beside him, Sherlock was busy on his mobile, chuckling. “Be nice, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“Because Greg’s family. Don’t make his job too hard, right? Or mine, for that matter. Thanks.”

“You, sir, are no fun at all.” That didn’t stop Sherlock from picking on the Yarders over text-message, anonymous text-message no less. He chuckled and tossed a piece of popcorn at Sherlock, who made a perfect catch. They tried to work out the identity or motives of the serial-killer, but they didn’t have enough data to make an educated guess. After the press-conference, John grabbed his coat and headed out to sound the streets. It was a given that Greg Lestrade would be looking for his street CIs after Beth Davenport’s murder, hoping that someone in the Network might have seen or heard something, might know something useful. For _that_ , he had to be out on the streets. Skip and Scotty were all over the place, but the last couple of times Greg had come to them, they’d been in Regent’s Park, St. James Park, or Trafalgar Square. Sherlock, not about to get left out, joined him and they took a cab to Trafalgar Square, knowing that Greg searched the close-range posts before venturing out to their other haunts around the city.

***

Greg Lestrade couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something subtle about his Homeless Network contacts, Scotty and Skip, something about them that the public wasn’t actually supposed to know. But they kept showing up to scenes whether he called them or not, which is what Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had done before they went MIA in Afghanistan, and he kept going to them for help on other cases. He still had _no_ idea where they actually lived, but one address for the pair had raised a red flag. A house in Chelsea was listed as their primary off-street residence, another listing assigned them a residence at 221 Baker Street. He had visited the Baker Street house many times in the past, but he hadn’t been aware of anyone actually _living_ there in the past nine months. Mrs. Hudson had been fairly adamant that she would never rent the upstairs rooms out again. He knew better than to ask the kind landlady why she was allowing two very _useful_ Homeless to live in that house, since Mrs. Hudson probably wouldn't tell him anyway, but it was definitely something to wonder about.

Two well-known off-street residences, two of his smartest and most reliable Confidential Informants, and he couldn't shake the feeling every time he saw them that he was looking at doppelgangers for the boys. They looked similar, acted similar, _sounded_ similar, and had some of the same little quirks no one who was unfamiliar with the boys would have noticed. But Greg had watched the boys grow up, he knew their every dark secret, so what _was_ it about Scotty and Skip? Besides being vampires, of course? What was their bloody secret? It was really starting to annoy him, and he knew it was obvious. He kept hearing Sherlock’s voice in his head, taunting him to “Observe. Don't just look, _observe_ , Lestrade.” See but don’t observe, that was the way most people who weren’t Sherlock Holmes or John Watson went about their daily lives, and none were the worse for not knowing any better. But Greg did know better and it annoyed him that he was missing something so obvious that as soon as he figured it out, he would probably spend a few hours questioning his own intelligence. It didn’t help that one of his forensic pathologists was a dead ringer for John, never mind that Skip could have been his fucking identical twin brother. It was no help that he still, four months after the fact, saw John in every short, tan, blonde man on the street, and _every_ time he saw Skip or the unnamed pathologist at a scene.

 

After the press-conference for Beth Davenport, which had gone about as well as it could have, never mind the questions he didn’t feel like answering, or the urge to collectively tell the press what to go do with themselves and their theories. Or those damn text-messages! If that was Scotty messing with them, he had some strict words for that idiot. Greg collected his keys, badge, coat, and gun and headed out.

“Where are _you_ going?” Sally Donovan found him halfway out his door.

“Street-sounding. Time to find out if Skip and Scotty know anything useful about this string of suicides.”

“You don’t _really_ think they’re suicides, do you?” Sally trailed after him.

“No, but I can’t say the words in public.” He turned and looked at his sergeant, “You and I know, and the boys would have confirmed it if they were around, this is a serial-killer. I can’t say anything until I know for certain.”

“You think John knows?” Sally folded her arms across her chest as she leaned against the wall by the lifts. Greg frowned at her, wondering if he’d heard right.

“What?”

“I’m throwing a quote at you from Sherlock. You see, but you do not observe.” She smiled at him, “Also, didn’t you ever do your research on the Holmes family?”

“What part of it?”

“How many of them are recorded vampires, how they came to be that way.”

“Enough to know what I was marrying into.”

“Look at the records again.”

“Sally?” He held the lift, “Are you saying...”

“Go find the boys.” She kissed him on the cheek, “Use the names you haven’t spoken out loud in four months.” The missing piece of that puzzle fell into place as he leaned against the wall of the lift, wondering if the pressure in his chest was tears or laughter or both.

“Fuck.” he pressed one hand to his mouth, muffling something trying to claw its way out of his chest. But at least, Greg reflected, he made it to his car before he had any kind of break-down. With his keys in one hand, he fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number he had called and texted endless times over the past four months, never once getting a reply. It would only make sense that the boys had new phones and new numbers to go with them, but he suspected they had kept their old phones. As the phone rang out, he leaned against the car and put his head down on his arm against the roof, “Please answer, please answer, please, for the love of god, please answer.” He knew the sound of their ringtones, he hadn’t heard them in ages, but when he heard John’s ringtone somewhere behind him, he almost jumped out of his skin. Greg did turn fast enough he dropped his phone and quickly scanned the car-park. Now, he wasn’t _entirely_ certain where the sound was coming from, the echoes were horrendous, and they could have been practically anywhere nearby. Picking up his phone and pocketing it, Greg approached where he _thought_ the ring-tone had sounded from.

Two rows over and halfway down, he caught sight of someone walking away. He recognized the silhouette and nodded. Definitely John. He recognized that damn coat, a black Haversack shooting jacket John wore the way Sherlock wore his Belstaff. Returning to his car, he looked for any spooks and didn’t see the boys again. Time to go street-side and start looking. Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself, Greg drove up to The Mall and parked just beyond the gates of Buckingham Palace. He actually did something most civilians couldn't ever hope to get away with and parked on the sidewalk along the fence on Constitution Hill. Locking his car, he pocketed his badge and keys, checked for his gun out of instinct, and headed for the Victoria Memorial. If he was going to find the boys anywhere in this mess, that would be the best place to start looking. And if they didn’t show, he’d walk The Mall down to Trafalgar Square. But something told him they wouldn't stray far after making contact like that. It would be damn hard to miss a pair like John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, but he’d done it before and would do it in the future. As he circled the memorial, where he had often come on nice days to eat lunch with Mycroft and the boys, he heard a startled yell and laughter, and the sound of splashing water.

“Oh, found ‘em.” He chuckled. Heading for where he’d heard the commotion, he stood witness to quite the scene. He was up by the memorial, the boys on street-level, and he watched from his vantage-point as Sherlock dragged a soaked and hysterical John out of the fountain. Hopping up on the wall, he swung his legs around and sat over the not-insignificant drop. Sherlock had tossed John into the fountain from street-level, not that a higher fall would have hurt the stocky doctor that much, and concerned civilians gathered around the pair, prepared to intervene if necessary. Greg unhooked his hand-cuffs and dangled them from one hand as he watched the boys, “So, gentlemen, what’s the matter here?”

“Greg!” They shouted in unison, climbing quickly to join him. He rattled the cuffs in warning.

“You know I’d be _well_ within my rights to put the pair of you in cuffs for that commotion.”

“But you’re not _going_ to.” John plopped down beside him, shaking water out of his hair, which had turned completely gray, “Miss us, Greg?”

“Damn idiot kids, giving me four months of lost sleep and grief. You were the worst offender, Watson. I keep seeing you _everywhere_ , but it never made sense!”

“We love you, Greg.” He got a wet kiss for that gripe and he made a face.

“Ugh, don’t _do_ that, John! You’re absolutely soaked!” He pushed John away, laughing. John dragged off his jacket, tossed it to the ground with a wet splat, and hauled his wet jumper over his head and wrung water out of it, giving it a firm shake.

“Yeah, you can thank our tall idiot consulting detective for _that_ , Greg.” He muttered, “And on a damn cold day, too! Thanks, Locket.”

“Love you!” Sherlock chirped sweetly, scooting over to lean against Greg’s other side, “We’re awfully sorry for the trouble we gave you, Greg. How did you not know it was us?”

“Saw, didn’t observe.” He reached over and ruffled John’s wet hair, flicking away water droplets with his fingers, “Even Sally had you made.”

“Well, she’s a smart girl.” John grumbled, “Jesus, Sherlock, I don’t have dry clothes! Daft git, thanks for throwing me in.”

“I could have tossed you in the duck pond, but I didn’t figure you’d like me much if I did that.”

“Alright, you two, knock it off!” Greg rolled his eyes and pinched the back of Sherlock’s neck, a trick that had worked to bring him to heel. It worked now, too, it seemed, as the dark-haired genius hunched his shoulders and growled. “Well, I’ll be damned. That still works.”

“I’m not a dog.” Sherlock threw him a dirty look.

“No, you’re too much like a bloody cat, doing as you like when you like and the rest of the world be damned.” He rubbed the back of Sherlock’s neck, “It’s alright, I don’t do it much anyway.”

“You seem remarkably calm about this.” John had folded aside his jacket and jumper and was wringing water out of his tee-shirt, “You looked a little upset down in the garage.”

“Yeah, sorry. I never put it together that Skip was John Watson and Scotty was Sherlock Holmes, don’t know why.” He sighed, leaning his head back to look at the sky, “Should have known when you kept solving my cases for me.”

“Always happy to help.”

“Well, let’s get you boys home, then. And get John some dry clothes.”

“That sounds like a grand idea.” John collected his wet clothes and bundled them up. Greg gave John his coat long enough to get back to his car. He called Mycroft to warn him that he was bringing home some company.

 _“Where on earth did you_ find _them?”_

“Pulled John out of the fountain at The Victoria Memorial.” He chuckled, “Apparently the Duck Pond was another option.”

 _“Oh, Sherlock.”_ He could hear the eye-roll, _“I don’t suppose this weather bothered John at all?”_

“He needs dry clothes, but that’s about all. Maybe a shower.”

_“I imagine he might. Bring them home, Greg.”_

“Already on our way.” He smiled and hung up, “Oh, that reminds me.” He looked into the back-seat where the boys were chatting in soft voices, “You two don’t have a thing against _cats_ , do you?”

“Not exactly. Why?”

“Oh, good.” He grinned, “We’ve acquired some new tenants at the South End Row house.”

“You never struck me as a _cat_ person, Greg. More for dogs than cats.” John made a face, “What changed your mind?”

“The David McMullin case.”

“Oh. Well, that...makes sense.” There was a moment of clarity and Sherlock spent the rest of the drive home giggling. Greg tried to remember if he’d ever read anything regarding cats’ sensitivity to vampires, but didn’t think it really mattered.

“We’ll know in a mo if the cats don’t like us.” John huffed, pushing the door open with his foot when they got back to the house. Greg had parked out on the street, a space was open for once, and he watched the boys let themselves in. Locking the car, he headed in. It was _much_ warmer inside, thank god, and he wandered into the living-room to find Sherlock making himself at home and Mycroft reading something from work. John was nowhere to be found and Sherlock pointed at the ceiling. Upstairs taking a shower. Lucky came down from her cat-tree perch to investigate Sherlock, who held out his hand for her to sniff his fingers.

“Guess she doesn’t mind you, Sherlock. That’s Lucky.”

“She’s a sweetheart.” He smiled and scratched Lucky’s ears and under her chin, got her purring in no time, and she curled up on the couch behind his head, laying her head on his shoulder and playing with his hair when the curls tickled her nose. Lucky thought it was fun to nibble on Sherlock’s ears, which he did _not_ like much, and tapped her on the nose in warning. “I like you, cat, but that’s not on.”

“Oh, she’s fine, Sherlock, let her be.” Greg chuckled, “Where’s Balto?”

“Not a clue. I think she’s staked out the upstairs bedrooms again, at the very least the stairs.” Mycroft smiled, “I have no doubt we’ll know when Balto introduces herself to John.”

“Mm-hmm. That’ll be worth the price of admission.” Greg sorted through that day’s mail, stacking bills off to one side. Suddenly, from upstairs, they heard a yell.

“Oi! What the...oh, out with you!”

“There it is.” Greg chuckled, “He forgot to lock the door.”

“Of course the cats can open doors.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he scratched Lucky’s ears. Five minutes later, John appeared at the bottom of the stairs, clad in pyjama bottoms and nothing else, holding Balto by the scruff of her neck, dripping wet from the shower and mad.

“Your cat is possessed!”

“Did she try to get in with you?”

“Yes! I thought cats _hated_ water!”

“Not these two.” Mycroft smiled, “That’s Balto. She’s awfully fond of water, and especially showers. We never figured out why.”

“I don’t appreciate being jumped in the shower.” John put Balto down and went in search of a towel, “Bloody menace, that one.” When he came back, he was pulling a tee-shirt over his head and rubbing his hair with a towel, having dried off. Balto seemed to be awfully fond of John and followed him around the house, despite his half-hearted protestations. “What part of “scram” do you not understand, you fuzzy menace? Shoo with you, or I’ll step on your tail! Then what would you think of me, hmm?” Balto sat on the counter while John fixed tea, transfixed by what the blonde soldier was doing. It was nothing Greg or Mycroft hadn’t done before, but she seemed to be particularly interested in John, almost obsessively so.

“Alright in there, Johnny?”

“I think your cat has a crush on me, she won’t leave me alone! Oi! No you don’t, get your nose out of that!” They couldn't see, but the commentary as John talked to and scolded Balto was amusing.

“Always the ladies man, John Watson.” Sherlock sniggered.

“I _heard_ that!” John came out of the kitchen with a tray in hand and Balto on his heels, “Tosser.”

“Aw, you love me.” Sherlock pouted, and Greg chuckled.

“So, it seems that cats do not mind vampires.” Mycroft took a cup from the tray with a sly smile.

“Well, ours don’t, anyway.”

“I wonder why.”

“You kept clothes here for a while, and they have free run of the house. I guarantee your scents have _not_ changed in four months, and they would have recognized you that way as soon as you entered the house.” Greg watched John pick up Balto, who batted at his bare feet with soft paws, and ruffle her fur before draping her across his shoulders. “Oh, great, now she’s going to be impossible. Thanks, John.”

“It’s what she’s been aiming for since she jumped me in the shower, I figure I might as well let her sit up there.” He grinned and tickled Balto’s nose, “She’s not _all_ bad, anyway. A real sweetheart for a Russian Blue.” That night, with a full house for the first time in years, Greg slept better than he had in several months. He didn’t have to worry about John and Sherlock anymore, and as soon as he _did_ , well...he’d cross that particularly nasty bridge when he got to it. For now, he enjoyed a brief moment’s peace.  

 


	7. The Lady in Pink

* * *

Any peace Greg had been hoping for was short-lived. Another suicide was called in the next night, on the 29th. He didn’t even bother to go out to the scene, he drove straight from South End Row to Baker Street, he was at home when the call came in, and let himself into the house.

“Where?” Sherlock didn’t even turn from the window.

“Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.” He tried to catch his breath, “Jesus.”

“They left a note, did they?”

“Part of one, anyway.” He straightened, “R-a-c-h-e.”

“Could be anything.” John looked up from reading a journal, “Could be a warning, ‘Rache’ is German. Revenge, if I remember rightly.”

“Or something else?”

“A name, possibly.” John was up on his feet and fetching coats, “Come on, Sherlock, you’ve been pulling on the lead to get a look at this since Phillimore and Westvalen made it three.”

“Davenport made four and now we’ve had a fifth.” Sherlock set down his violin and collected his coat from John. “Do we know anything besides the note?” Greg passed along his phone, Sally Donovan had sent a few photos from the scene.

“My god, that is a lot of pink!” John blinked at the images of the victim, “Name?”

“Uh, I think her name is Jennifer Wilson.” He took his phone back and followed the boys downstairs, “You two want a ride in? Or are you getting a cab this time?”

“Faster to ride in with you.” Sherlock held the door, “I assume it’s sentimental attachment that’s kept you from upgrading to a smaller unmarked car?”

“Oh please, as if you mind the Rover.” Greg rolled his eyes and waved to Mrs. Hudson, who peeked out of her flat as they came tromping down the stairs. “Evening, Mrs. H.”

“Hello, Greg! Busy night?”

“You could say that, love.” He smiled at the boys’ landlady, who looked after them nearly as often as they looked after her. It was a good match, he thought. “Don’t wait up for the boys, might be late.”

“Should I put up some food?”

“Something cold should do, I would think. Not that either of them will remember to eat, but who knows?” He bundled up against the weather, “Five suicides, I’m calling foul-play on a clever serial-killer. We’ll find the bastard and stop him. Somehow.”

“Be safe out there, you three!” She called as they headed out to Greg’s car.

“We will be!” They called back in unison. John rode shot-gun, Sherlock took the back-seat, and the boys kept up a running commentary on the drive down to Brixton.

“So, let’s get this straight.” John was on the on-board laptop, “We have five victims, no similarities between them?”

“Uh, no. Not really.”

“Names.” Case-work it was, even on the run. Typical. He rolled his eyes.

“Jeffrey Patterson.”

“Found in a high-rise in October. Died of asphyxiation secondary to unknown toxicity.”

“James Phillimore.”

“Found in a school gym in November. Died of asphyxiation secondary to unknown toxicity.”

“Rachel Westvalen.”

“Found in a...storage-unit on December 22nd. Died of asphyxiation secondary to unknown toxicity.”

“Rachel Westvalen, age 34, single mother of a four-year-old boy named Jacob, worked part-time as a traveling nurse, married once. The husband has a record and is in prison.” Sherlock said quietly, “Jacob was warded to the state after his mother was deemed unfit to parent and her parents were unable to take him on. But his grandparents  _do_ have full visitation three times a month. As does the boy’s biological father.” 

Greg felt a tightness in his chest when he thought of the sweet, shy boy who had won him over in the course of an afternoon, and how heartbroken he had been to realize Jacob Westvalen wouldn’t have a proper Christmas. It was the only time in almost a decade that he and Mycroft had backed out of the family festivities, opting instead to spend the holiday with Jacob. He would have to ask Mycroft if he had heard back from the courts yet or not. But right now, he had work to do.

“Beth Davenport.”

“Last seen at a fundraiser, found on a build-site in Central London two nights ago. Died of asphyxiation secondary to unknown toxicity.”

“And Jennifer Wilson.”

“Found in an abandoned house in Brixton. Cause of death currently unknown, probable cause same as previous four victims.” John finished typing and read over his notes, “Let’s see. Two high-profile “business” types, a university student, a single mother, and...a media rep? Jesus, this killer is all over the place.”

“What makes you think it’s the same killer?”

“The proximity to the death and announcement of Beth Davenport is not coincidence.” Sherlock was busy on his phone in the back seat, “The universe is rarely so lazy.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it.” Greg sighed, groaned, and squinted out the wind-screen at the road before them, “Christ.”

“You didn’t tell them it _wasn’t_ a serial-killer, you just told them you weren’t sure if it _was_ a serial-killer. There is a difference.” John reassured him from the passenger’s seat, “Don’t worry too much. Focus on the now.”

“Yeah.” He realized he’d forgotten to ask who was on forensics, and had the awful sinking feeling in his gut it was Philip Anderson. “Damn it.”

“What?”

“Oh, God, I shouldn’t have put Donovan in charge without someone else on site to help her out.” He gripped the steering-wheel tightly, “Shit.”

“Oh no.” John had picked up his train of thought and the boys looked at each other.

“Anderson.” They said it in perfect unison, with the same disdain heavy in their voices.

“She’s loyal, John. She had you made out before anyone else did.” Greg was trying to reassure himself as much as he was the boys. Sally wasn’t about to stray, but Anderson didn’t know that. The forensics specialist had gotten so pushy lately that Greg was about to force him into mandatory workplace sensitivity training. If...and only if the boys didn’t get hands on him first. Not that he wouldn't love to see John lay the prick out on pavement, of course. When they reached the scene, he had barely parked the car before the boys were on the move. Pocketing his keys, Greg ran for the line. Sally was there, and had her back to them, so she didn’t see the boys coming. Greg slipped past her, nodding as he passed her by. “Donovan.”

“About time you got here.” Sally rolled her eyes. Greg clenched his teeth against a smile.

“Yeah, yeah. Do that again and you’re on desk-duty for a week. Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

“Thought so.” He looked for the specialist, “He’s been leaving you alone?”

“Ugh.” Sally’s expression said no. Greg looked for the boys, who could have easily slipped past Sally without her knowing, “He won’t take no for an answer!”

“Doesn’t believe you when you tell him you’ve got a boyfriend?”

“Like hell he does!”

“Which is absolutely ridiculous, you’ve been dating John Watson on and off for years. Boundaries mean nothing to him, do they?”

“No.” Sally trailed him to the door of the house, where Anderson paced back and forth waiting for him. “No they absolutely do not.”

“If he causes a ruckus, I’ll say something. Just keep your distance, love.” He kissed her on the cheek, “Maybe if you wish hard enough, you’ll get a miracle.”

“That would be amazing!” He didn’t miss how she reached for the tags he’d given her months ago.

“You still wear their tags?”

“I had a friend make me a new set, I put theirs back together for them.”

“That was kind of you, Sal.” He headed into the house, looking for the boys. He didn’t see them right away, so he sent a quick text. 

 

**Where did you two go? - GL**

 

**Waiting until you need us. Just around the corner. - SH**

 

**Is Anderson bothering Sally? - JW**

 

**No, he’s leaving her alone. For now. Come in whenever. I could definitely use you. - GL**

 

He ended the current text-string and waited for the boys. There was a brief commotion outside and he went to see. Anderson had made his move, and been rebuffed, and he wasn’t taking rejection well.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Donovan! He’s dead! Has been for months! Move on already!”

“Shit. Anderson!” Greg yelled.

“What is it to you, Anderson? I’m not going to just magically decide to cheat on John Watson with someone like you, if I ever strayed! Forget it. Leave me be!” Sally snarled, pulling away from Anderson. Oh this was going on that little prick’s record if it was the last thing that ever happened to him.

“Hey! What’s the problem here?” Ah, good. The guardian angel had shown himself. He sighed.

“Thank god for John Watson.” He muttered, leaning against the door-frame to watch.

“Who the hell are you?” Anderson snapped, he hated civilians on scene, “You can’t be here!”

“Actually, Mr. Anderson, we can be here.” Sherlock said primly, “If you have a problem with that, take it up with Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“It’s my scene!”

“Bullshit it’s your scene, you poncy tosser!” John snarled, getting between Anderson and Sally, who didn’t mind the intervention at all, “And another thing. If you ever come anywhere near my girlfriend ever again, ever, and talk to her, touch her, or look at her without her permission, they won’t find you.”

“Oh, please! You don’t scare me!”

“I should scare you, Philip Anderson. The last person who didn’t take me seriously when I told them to leave well enough alone, nicely, left the house in a body-bag.” John leaned in, baring his teeth, “I’ve had enough violence for a life-time, but if you cross Lestrade or Donovan again, it’s John Watson standing in your way, and son, I wish you luck getting past me.”

“Watson?!”

“Rumors of our deaths were greatly exaggerated. Good evening to you, Anderson.” John flashed a menacing grin at Anderson and walked into the house like he owned the place. And really, he kind of did. For a man who had never topped five-foot-six, John sure had a lot of presence.

“Nice job, John.” Greg whispered as he handed over PPE gear, “I think you saved me some serious trouble.”

“If he does that again, I’ll lay him out for you. I’d love to teach him a lesson.”

“Thanks. Sally’s grateful, too.”

“I know.” John smiled as he zipped up the blue Tyvek suit. Going upstairs, they found Jennifer Wilson’s body exactly the way it had been found by a couple of neighborhood kids. It took under two minutes for John and Sherlock to work out everything about her, how she had died, her history, the likes. The look the two shared across the body said everything.

“What have you got, boys?”

“Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; media, most likely, going by the frankly _alarming_ shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

“Suitcase.”

“Suitcase, yes.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work; look at her nails.” Sherlock was pointing out small clues, “She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”

“Right. But, Cardiff?” He had to ask.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“It’s not obvious to them, Sherlock.” John scolded gently.

“Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.”

“Sherlock!” John snapped, taking over from his mouthy flat-mate, “Her coat: it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She’s turned it up against the wind. She’s got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it’s dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella.”

“We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can’t have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried.” Sherlock picked up the thread, “So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff.” He showed his phone, which displayed a weather-map of the Welsh coast.

“Why d’you keep saying suitcase?”

“Yes, where is it?” Sherlock looked around the room “She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing ‘Rachel’?” So it was a name after all.

“Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?” John sat back on his heels, eyes narrow.

“How d’you know she had a suitcase?”

“Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread.” Sherlock was on his feet, pivoting on his heel, eyes scanning every corner of the room. “Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.”

“There wasn’t a case.”

“Say that again.” Sherlock turned on him so fast he got whiplash.

“There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase.” Greg shook his head. None of his people had found a suitcase, or said anything if they had.

“Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase?” Sherlock yanked the door open and tore out of the room, “Was there a suitcase in this house?”

“Sherlock, there was no case!” Greg followed him out, John in tow, and leaned over the banister as Sherlock practically flew down the stairs.

“But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves.” He stopped on a landing and looked up at them, “There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn’t miss them!”

“Right, yeah, thanks!” He rolled his eyes, “And...?”

“It’s murder, all of them. They’re not suicides, they’re killings – serial killings. We’ve got ourselves a serial killer.” Sherlock’s whole face lit up, “I love those. There’s always something to look forward to.”

“If we haven’t found a suitcase in this house, someone else was here, and they took her case.” John leaned against the railings, thinking on his feet, “So the killer must have driven her here? Forgot the case was in the car.”

“She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there.”

“No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never have left any hotel with her hair still looking...” Sherlock trailed off mid-sentence, “Oh. Oh!” Greg looked at John, who shrugged. This had happened before, it was kind of to be expected.

“Sherlock?”

“What is it, what?”

“Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

“We can’t just wait!”

“Oh, we’re done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake.” Sherlock disappeared from sight, “Get on to Cardiff and find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends were. Find Rachel!”

“Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!” Greg made a living on hunches, but he needed something more concrete to work with this time.

“PINK!” Sherlock appeared again at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wild, and shouted up three floors at them. Then he was gone again and the only sign they had that he had left the house was the slamming of the door.

“And there he goes.” John rolled his eyes, “Again.”

“Some things never change.” Greg headed downstairs after releasing the scene to forensics, “Don’t touch anything except the body, Anderson, or it will quite literally be your head. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Anderson wouldn't make eye-contact, and Greg didn’t miss how he gave John a wide berth. Once out of the house, Greg took John’s statements. He would get Sherlock’s later. Once he had John’s statements, they finished working the scene.

“You know Sherlock’s going to find that damn suitcase if it takes him all night.”

“Oh, yeah.” Greg snickered as they scoured the rest of the house for evidence, “The question is, will he tell anyone?”

“He kind of has to.” John walked the room from one end to the other, staying away from the body, eyes fixed on the floor as he looked for clues, evidence, anything to point them in the right direction. Greg watched him, admiring how thorough the soldier was and wishing again that John had gone into law-enforcement instead of medicine, he was one of their best and he had almost zero formal training. It wasn’t unusual for John and Sherlock to show up on a scene and solve the whole thing in five minutes, John finding some overlooked bit of evidence, or inspiring a closer look at another piece of evidence set aside. Suddenly, he paused just on this side of the body, “Oh, wait. Wait.”

“Hmm?”

“Anderson, stop!” John had cleared the distance between his corner and the body in a blink, and scared poor Anderson, “Step back!”

“What?!”

“Just...don’t move.” John dropped to one knee and leaned down, picking something up from the floor, “Hah. Sorry, mate, but that’s evidence. Almost stepped on that.” “That” was something small and irregular in shape. Greg didn’t miss how poor Anderson had gone completely pale. John was focused as he whipped out his mobile-phone and did something with it.

“What are you doing, John?”

“Hang on.” John narrowed his eyes, scrolling through something on his screen, “Ah, yes. That’s good.”

“Got something, Doctor Watson?”

“Mm.” He got up, still looking at his phone, waving over a hovering forensics specialist, who rushed forward with an evidence-kit, “I just need a small clear evidence-bag, my dear.” The girl, about Mariam Watson’s age, found the requested item and held it open while John dropped the rescued evidence into it after labeling it for him.

“What’d you find, John?”

“A huge clue.” John held out his phone, “I’ll do some searching, but I guarantee whoever dropped this on our scene will be our killer.” Displayed on the screen was prescription information for a drug commonly used to treat blood-clots.

“Blood-thinners?”

“Mm. That’s a clue, sir, if I’ve ever seen one.”

“What makes you think this identifies our suspect?”

“Because that drug is a controlled substance and anyone prescribed it by their physician is entered into a database.”

“Don’t you have to be a prescribing physician or law-enforcement to get access to those records?” Greg folded his arms, prepared to help out like that if necessary.

“I’m a registered physician, a forensic pathologist, I have all the credentials I need to get into that database.” John patted down his pockets looking for something. Greg recognized the tightness in his expression and sighed.

“Hang on a minute, John.” He dug a nearly-empty pack of cigarettes out of his coat pockets and handed the lot to John, “Sorry, your eyes are a little dark.”

“Thanks, mate.” John shook his head and took one, “Christ.”

“No worries. Ever figure out why it works?”

“Nope, and I sure don’t mind. I don’t think anyone else does, either. In light of what I am, this is the least of my crimes and questionable habits.” John lit the end of the cigarette and Greg watched it glow as he took a deep, steadying inhale. He had learned very quickly, before it ever occurred to him that John Watson and Skip were the same person, that the young vampire smoked when he was holding a deeper, much darker urge at bay.

“When’s the last time you fed, son?”

“Two days ago. I’m good.” John smiled, “This helps, a lot.”

“I’d say something about it killing you, but I don’t think it’ll do much.” Greg chuckled, “Well, shit. So, John Watson works for the Coroner’s Office.”

“Yep. And by extension, I work for _you_.” John wiggled his eyebrows, “How’s that for you?”

“Damn. What, uh, what possessed you to do something like that?”

“I’m looking at him.” John’s smile softened, “You set me straight when I was a kid, Greg. Me and Sherlock both. We’ve been solving crimes almost as long as you have, Sherlock figured at least one of us had better go legit.”

“And you won the coin-toss?”

“About ten years ago. I got the job before I enlisted, but I was so far down the ladder all I did was run errands for the senior techs. I worked whenever I was home on leave, which wasn’t that often, but they understood. It was how I paid for school and such. Now, I command my own hours and a reasonable salary for part-time work between the Coroner’s Office and Saint Bart’s.”

“I'll be damned.” Greg chuckled, “You sneaky git.”

“That’s not to say he won’t join us on _this_ side of the fence later, but you know Sherlock. ” John shrugged, clearing his throat, “He likes doing things his own way.”

“That he most certainly does.” Greg sighed, “Think he’s missed you yet?”

“Phone’s quiet, head’s quiet. Don’t look at me like that, I can hear that poncy bastard halfway across the city now if I have to.” John must have seen the look on his face, “Nah, he’s alright.”

“God bless you, John Watson.” Greg leaned his head back, looking for stars.

“You won’t see any tonight, it’s too cloudy.” John murmured. He saw the tilt of John’s head and knew he’d heard something.

“What’s up?” He took a pull of his cigarette.

“Mycroft.” It was a whisper of that name. Greg chuckled. It was anyone's guess which one of them his husband had come for. A moment later, that familiar black car came into sight and turned the corner. It coasted to a stop at the tape-line, the constable on duty there spoke to the driver, and they watched as the constable straightened to look around, spotted them, and pointed them out.

“Wonder what he wants.”

“Can’t be Sherlock, he hasn’t been gone long enough to have gotten into trouble.” John shrugged, “Damn fool’s not even a mile from here, he’s keeping a pretty low profile.”

“Still hasn’t found that suitcase, I take it?”

“Nope.” John snickered, “Evening, Mycroft!”

“Good evening, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft smiled as he caught up with them, “Inspector.”

“Mr. Holmes.” Greg cleared his throat as he looked for eavesdroppers, “To what do we owe the inestimable pleasure of your company tonight?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“Not necessarily.” John’s voice was soft. “You can do nearly anything you damn well please, sir.”

“I may not need a reason, but I do have one.” Mycroft twirled his brolly, a sad look in his eyes, “My work is going to keep me far later tonight than I would like, and I know by now that the best way to see any of you is to find you on-scene wherever you happen to be in the city.”

“It might just be an empty house tonight, then.” Greg raked one hand through his hair in annoyance, “This case is promising to be a long and frustrating one. Not that John and Sherlock haven’t been incredibly helpful already, but I have no motives, no suspects, nothing.”

“But you are certain it is the work of a serial-killer?”

“A damn sloppy one if it is.” Greg shook his head, “I don’t know. And with Anderson being a prat, I’m not in the best mood.”

“What did he do this time?”

“Tried to go after Sally Donovan. You can imagine how that went over.”

“He did what?” The look in Mycroft’s eyes and the tone of his voice could have chilled ice. Greg and John shared a glance.

“Philip Anderson has been pursuing Sally Donovan in hopes of a romantic relationship with her, completely ignoring all clear signals that she was neither available nor interested, but I think he’ll refrain from making that mistake again.” Greg shrugged.

“For his sake, I hope he does.” Mycroft was searching the ranks of Yard personnel for Anderson, but there was no sign of him. Sally did make an appearance, however, and she came straight over when she spotted Mycroft.

“Mycroft!”

“Hello, Sally.” Mycroft was pleasant with Sally, he always had been, “You look rather tired, my dear.”

“It’s been a long week is all, sir. For all of us.” Sally shook her head, “But we’ve reliable help now, so we’ll solve this one in no time at all.”

“I take it my brother has disappeared again?”

“Not a clue where he went.” John coughed, “Evidence-gathering, I think. We’re missing a key piece of evidence for this case and the tall idiot ran off to go find it. He’ll probably haul it back to Baker Street and then call me back to do something with it.”

“That is my brother’s way.” Mycroft smiled, “I’m sorry I can’t stay, but I will be in touch. Good luck, all of you. And please be safe.”  
“Yes, sir.” They watched him leave after a subtle, subdued goodbye, but he hadn’t even cleared the tape-line before John’s phone was going off in his pocket. Greg didn’t have to look to know Sherlock had texted John.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Damn it, Sherlock!” John sighed heavily, “Well, fine then. Mycroft, wait up!”

“He found it, John?”

“Yep. Stay tuned!” John pocketed his phone and ran after Mycroft, “Sorry, Greg!”

“No worries, kid.” He watched as John caught up with Mycroft and begged a lift back to Baker Street. Faster and far more reliable than trying to hail a taxi in this part of town.

“Now what?”

“Now we wait.” Greg sighed and headed back into the house, “Keep an eye on things out here for me, will you? I’ve got to finish shutting down the scene.”

“Yes, sir.” Sally nodded and he went back inside to close down the scene. As soon as everything here in Brixton was handled, he was going to head straight back to Baker Street. He would take Sally, but no one else on that run.

***

John let himself into the Devonshire Terrace house, wondering what had possessed Sherlock to bunk down there instead of at Baker Street. But never mind that, Sherlock had the suitcase! He found Sherlock perched on one of the armchairs like a gargoyle, staring intently at the pink suitcase sitting on the coffee-table. He shook his head and ventured into the kitchen.

“For your information, I was still the other side of London, you git. Damned inconvenient!”

“And yet, here you are.” Sherlock just grinned at him, “How is my brother?”

“Won’t be home tonight, and at this rate, neither will Greg.” He sighed and fixed tea, “Where’s the laptop?”

“Where we left it last time we were here. Why? Do you need it for something?”

“I found a piece of evidence at the crime-scene that might just give us everything we ever wanted on our killer.” He carried two cups out to the sitting-room once the tea was ready.

“Oh?” That got Sherlock’s attention. John held out one cup to his flat-mate.

“Mm. That idiot Anderson almost stepped on a bit of evidence, but I saved it just in time.” He tossed Sherlock his phone, “Found that on the floor by Jennifer Wilson’s body. Fairly certain she wasn’t the one taking that.” While Sherlock looked at the information he’d found on the drug discovered at the scene, John sorted through the suitcase, isolating the toiletry bag and going through it to look for prescription bottles. But Jennifer Wilson hadn’t been on any medications at the time of her death, so the pill had to belong to the killer. Sherlock disappeared up to the third bedroom they had turned into a study/evidence room and returned just as quickly with the laptop. While he pulled up the website for the drug database and entered the criteria he had on hand, John multi-tasked by sending a text from his phone to a phone-number belonging to Jennifer Wilson.

 

**What happened at Lauriston Gdens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.**

 

“The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it.” Sherlock was talking now, and he paid enough attention while waiting for the database to compile results, “Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

“Pink.” John looked up from the laptop, “You got all that because you realised the case would be pink?”

“Well, it had to be pink, obviously.” Sherlock refolded his hands and then extended his index fingers to point at the case. “Now, look. Do you see what’s missing?”

“From the case?” John shook his head, “Her phone.”

“Where’s her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there’s no phone in the case. We know she had one – that’s her number there; you just texted it.”

“If it was here, we would have heard it ring.” John sighed.

“Well, the question is: where is her phone now?”

“She could have lost it.” But that was unlikely. Someone as careful as Jennifer Wilson wouldn't just lose her phone.

“Yes, or…?”

“The murderer…You think the murderer has the phone?”

“Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason.” Sherlock dropped into his chair, “Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.” As if on cue, John’s phone began to ring. The number was withheld, and he looked at Sherlock, who looked at the ringing phone with narrow eyes.

“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer…” He paused dramatically for a moment until the phone stopped ringing.

“The murderer would panic.” John looked at the list of results, “I’ve got a few hits, Sherlock.”

“Good. Keep it compiling. We’re going out for a bit.”

“Have you told Greg you found the suitcase?”

“No. You told him, didn’t you?” Sherlock shrugged into his Belstaff.

“He knows we have it, but he thinks you took it back to Baker Street.”

“Hmm. Nope.”

“Why?”

“Devonshire Terrace is a bit harder to find.” His cocky flat-mate just smiled. “Come on, John!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, now where are we going?!” He set up mobile-alerts on his phone to alert him if any direct matches to the drug he'd found at the Lauriston Gardens scene came up in the data-base. 

“Street-sounding!”

“Right.” He rolled his eyes and got up, collecting his coat, “Of course we are. Angelo’s?”

“Yep.”

“Figures.” He set up an alert on his phone for the database if they got any matches on the results and followed Sherlock out to the street after locking up the house, where they hailed a taxi to Soho for their next, possibly misguided rendezvous. “Don’t do anything stupid, Sherlock, please?”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it!”

“So do I.” Sherlock smiled at him, “You worry too much.”

“One of us has to!” He sighed and spent most of the trip staring out the window. 

He took the time to send a text to Greg.

 

**Sherlock found Jennifer Wilson’s suitcase. It’s at Devonshire Terrace. Collect for evidence. – JW**

 

**Thanks for the heads-up. Haven’t left Brixton yet, but you saved me a trip to Baker Street. – GL**

 

**Not a problem. Be in touch. – JW**

 

Sending the last text, he pocketed his phone and leaned his head against the window of the cab, keeping his eyes closed. He was tired, like he hadn’t been in a long time. As soon as this string of cases was closed, he planned to take himself off the rosters at work for a bit and take a break. But he would solve Jennifer Wilson’s murder before he took any time off, and he would work without sleep for six days if necessary.


	8. How to Catch a Serial-Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After laying a rather clever trap for their serial-killer, John and Sherlock staked out the Northumberland Street address from Angelo’s. They waited an hour for activity, which came in the form of an empty taxi. As soon as the black cab pulled up and stopped across the street, John looked across the table at Sherlock, who smiled behind his wine-glass, and raised an eyebrow.
> 
> “Your move, Sherlock. Don’t be stupid.” Sherlock tossed back the rest of his wine, shoved to his feet, and was out the door like a whirlwind, yelling something to Angelo, who just shook his head as the door slammed shut, rattling the glass and the visitor-bells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little shorter than I anticipated, but I think it's a decent, if different, take on ASiP. Hope you all enjoy! A little bit of undercover work, some sneakiness by our boys, and John gets to play dress-up.
> 
> ***  
> Jean-Noël Houdin = Sherlock  
> Christopher de Verely = John  
> ***  
> {"Text within these brackets is spoken French"}

* * *

After laying a rather clever trap for their serial-killer, John and Sherlock staked out the Northumberland Street address from Angelo’s. They waited an hour for activity, which came in the form of an empty taxi. As soon as the black cab pulled up and stopped across the street, John looked across the table at Sherlock, who smiled behind his wine-glass and raised an eyebrow.

“Your move, Sherlock. Don’t be stupid.” He said calmly as Sherlock tossed back the rest of his wine, shoved to his feet, and was out the door like a whirlwind, yelling something to Angelo, who just shook his head as the door slammed shut, rattling the glass and the visitor-bells. John got to his feet, tossed a few bills onto the table-top, and hurried after Sherlock, waving to Angelo. Anyone who didn’t know them would have honestly thought they were a pair of arguing mates, maybe lovers, the way they carried on. They didn’t argue in English, either, having chosen French, which they both spoke fluently. After a few decently harsh exchanges, Sherlock stormed away from him, looking appropriately put-out. He watched Sherlock approach the taxi, knock on the window, and speak to the cabbie.

{“You'll never get home alive, you moron! This city will eat you up and spit out your bones!”} He shouted across the street, distracting Sherlock just enough. His flat-mate turned sharply from the taxi and glared at him.

{“I can take care of myself!”} Sherlock snapped back, {“Fuck off!”}

{“Yeah! With your keys, genius!”} He dangled Sherlock’s keys with a flourish, smirking, {“Good luck getting back into the house without them!”}

{“You stole my keys?”} Sherlock patted down his pockets with a bit of dramatic flair, {“Give those back!”}

{“Not that you deserve them!”} He chucked the keys overhand, {“I'll get my own ride home, loser!”} Sherlock caught the keys, rolled his eyes, and ducked into the cab. John walked down to the end of the block and around the corner. From there, he watched until the black cab disappeared into traffic. Nodding, he pulled up a GPS-tracker on his phone and watched the red blip. He walked about a mile before a passing car stopped him. He recognized the white Land Rover as he rounded the corner just ahead of it and shrugged. The car flipped its lights and he stopped, standing on the kerb as it rolled to a halt next to him. The window rolled down and he leaned into the car.

“Going somewhere, Doctor Watson?”

“You get the suitcase from Paddington?”

“Yes, we did.” Greg Lestrade looked at him, eyes narrow, “Sherlock get off, then?”

“It was quite a performance, I think we convinced our suspect to take him out of pity.” He chuckled and hopped into the back seat, “Head…south.”

“Where are we going?”

“Not sure yet, just go south. If I see the cab, I’ll let you know.” He looked out the window as they got underway, “I can’t believe that worked.”

“Let’s go get your idiot flat-mate before he gets himself into trouble,” Greg smirked and floored the accelerator. It didn’t take long to find the cab, and as soon as John had a lock two blocks out on the location, Greg flipped on lights and sirens both and they closed in for the kill.

“There’s a bag under your seat, John.” Sally looked over her shoulder, “Get dressed.”

“Excellent.” He fetched up the holdall and zipped it open. Inside was a pair of black combat-trousers, a white dress-shirt, clip-on tie, blue jumper, and hi-vis jacket with a peaked cap. Getting changed didn’t take long and he finished tying up his boot-laces as the Rover skidded to a halt behind the cab after pulling them over on a traffic stop. “What are his charges?”

“What are his charges?”

“You called and filed a missing-persons/kidnapping report.”

“Of course I did.”

“Frantic foreigner gets separated from his mate, guarantee you The Met’s gonna pay a bit of attention when a few French nationals get into some trouble.” Greg looked over his shoulder, “You packed your Browning?”

“Don’t leave the house without it.” He held up the weapon in question before shoving it into the holster on the duty-belt and switching places with Sally, “Shouldn’t need to use it tonight.”

“Hopefully not.” Greg frowned and they watched the cab for a bit before John kicked open his door and hopped out. “Be careful, John.”

“I know.” He flashed a brisk smile and approached the cab warily. Sherlock was absolutely fine, not at all harmed, but he _was_ highly amused by the stunt The Met had just pulled. He approached the driver’s side of the cab, lighting the way with the torch, mindful of the traffic passing them by on either side. He tapped on the window with the butt of the torch and waited for the driver to roll his window down,

“Evening, officer!” The driver beamed at him, disarmingly cheerful, “What’s the problem?”

“Evening, sir.” John peeked into the back-seat, at Sherlock, who’ eyes went wide at the sight of John in uniform, “Just making a traffic stop. You’ve got a plate-light out in back and a call came through for a missing person.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Mind if I speak to your passenger, sir?”

“He don’t speak English.”

“I’m not looking for a native-speaker,” John muttered as the driver surrendered the proper paperwork for himself. He read the cards and looked back at the Rover. “Sit tight, I need to run your cards.”

“Of course, officer!” The driver didn’t seem at all bothered by it and John headed back to the Rover, looking at the information he’d gotten.

“Jefferson Hope. This guy’s the serial-killer? Doesn’t look like much.” Getting back to the Rover, he surrendered the identification over to Greg, who ran it through the system and he checked his phone for messages. He’d gotten a hit on the prescription he’d recovered at Lauriston Gardens.

“Run this guy through facial-rec and we’ll have a match.” Greg muttered, “Get back up there.”

“Roger that.” John patted the frame of the window as he pushed away and went back up to the cab.

“Problem, officer?”

“Just running your cards. Shouldn’t take long.” He leaned into the cab again, “I do need to speak to your passenger, though.”

“Oh, of course!” Mr Hope just looked over his shoulder, “But he don’t speak English, like I said before.”

“No?”

“Uh, French, I think. Spoke very poor English earlier.”

“Mmhmm.” He pulled open the back door and waved Sherlock out. They stood at the back bumper and he kept one eye on Hope. Their voices were so low a human wouldn’t overhear a word.

“You alright, Sherlock?”

“I’m fine. He fell for it.” Sherlock dutifully handed over a French passport, holding up appearances that he was a lost French national separated from his party.

“I noticed.” John chewed on his lip, “You can thank Sally for this get-up, by the way. I didn’t miss the way your eyes widened when you saw me a minute ago.”

“You don’t usually go “undercover” for cases, that’s all.”

“You like it, you idiot.” He handed back the passport as his radio, which was fully-functional and keyed into The Met’s bandwidths and channels, squawked.

 _“Dispatch to Seven-Ten-Delta. We have an update on the missing-persons report that was called in from Soho.”_ The dispatcher’s voice sounded unusually loud, and John quickly turned down the volume a bit. He checked his numbers. Seven-Ten-Delta. He nodded and tweaked the radio.

“Seven-Ten-Delta to Dispatch. Call in updates.”

 _“Jean-No_ _ël Houdin was reported missing at approximately 21:45 local time by his husband from just outside of Angelo’s Italian Restaurant in Soho. There’s a chance he’s been kidnapped and held against his will.”_

“Dispatch, I’m on a traffic-stop on Sutherland Street with DI Lestrade, running patrols.” He glanced at Sherlock who nodded, “I found Mr Houdin. Is there a way to get in touch with his husband?”

 _“He left a phone-number.”_ The dispatcher read back the contact number and a name, and John snorted. It was _his_ phone-number! Mycroft must have called in the whole thing to make it legit. Nice. He looked back at the cab and frowned.

“Have you tried to make contact?”

_“Not until we had something.”_

“Roger that, Dispatch. Ta.” He signed off and handed back the passport. He knew he had to do something with his phone, and fast. Knowing John needed help, Greg popped out of the Rover and came over to offer a hand.

“I’ve got this, kids. Scram.”

“Thanks, Greg.” John smiled, “Pretty sure that’s our man.”

“Facial-rec just got a seven-point match. He’s not going anywhere.”

“Did you call for back-up?”

“Yep.”

“Fabulous. I’ll get Sherlock out of here.” John ushered Sherlock away from the cab and waited until they got back to the Rover to alter his voicemail greeting.

{“Hello, you've reached the phone of Christopher de Verely. Sorry you missed me, but please leave a message with your name, number, and the reason for your call and I will get back to you as soon as is convenient! Thank you and have a blessed day.”}

He played the greeting back and nodded. His phone lit up with a call not a minute later, but he let it ring through to voicemail. Feeling a bit spiteful, John looked back at the cab and hit redial on a different number. Even from back here, he could hear Jennifer Wilson’s phone ringing. The look on Greg’s face as that phone started ringing was priceless. Chuckling, he ended the call and went to lean against the bonnet, arms folded across his chest. This would be beautiful. Four squad-cars pulled up around them five minutes later and the take-down was both simple and violent.

***

Twenty minutes later, John and Sherlock were sitting in the division AV-booth at headquarters, listening in on the interview Greg was conducting with Jefferson Hope. Not surprisingly, the cabbie folded right away. The only thing he wouldn’t give them was a name. He had a sponsor, but he wouldn’t give up a name.

 _“He’s gonna have me killed, y’know,”_ Hope said dismally, rattling his handcuffs.

_“Who’s going to have you killed? Why?”  
_

_“My sponsor. I failed.”_

_“How?”_

_“I was looking for someone, and I missed him. Got distracted by another fare.”_ Hope shrugged, _“Didn’t think finding Sherlock ‘Olmes would be so bloody hard.”_ In the AV-booth, John and Sherlock looked at each other.

 _“Hang on, let me get this straight.”_ Greg radiated fury, and John was awfully glad to not be in that room right now, _“Are you telling me you, a simple cab-driver, went and got yourself messed up with an organized-crime syndicate of some kind and became a hired-gun?”_

_“Sorta.”_

_“Why Sherlock Holmes?”  
_

_“He’s brilliant, he is. Real special mind.”_

_“Why. Sherlock. Holmes? You didn’t answer my question.”_ Greg leaned against the table, practically radiating a subtle anger that had frightened suspects far more stubborn and dangerous than the unwitting cabbie. 

“ _He’s interesting.”_

_“Dead? Or alive?”_

_“Wanted him alive, I think.”_ Hope shook his head, _“Now_ I’m _dead.”_

 _“You’re dead anyway, Mr Hope. And a damned sorry liar.”_ Greg leaned across the table, _“Now, give me a fucking name or I will_ bury _you_ _. Your little killing-spree has kept my division running for four goddamn months, you owe me answers! Start talking!”_

“Greg’s mad.” John muttered, “Who’d you piss off, Sherlock?”

“Not a clue.” Sherlock shrugged, paying attention as Greg went into what they called “Bad Cop” mode. He was a nice bloke, pretty level-headed, but he could be very scary when he’d lost patience with a suspect. They watched, sharing a bag of crisps and a cup of coffee, as Greg ripped into Hope, who finally broke down and confessed. They got a name, a motive, everything.

“Moriarty.” John repeated the name to himself, “Who, or _what_ , is Moriarty?”

“Not a clue.” Sherlock looked thoughtful, “Someone not to be handled lightly. He’ll have operatives everywhere, Hope won’t last six months in prison.”

“Nope.” John narrowed his eyes, “Poor sod.” In the interview-room, Greg had gotten to his feet, collected his notes and what was left of his sanity, and told Hope to sit tight until someone came to collect him.

“That’s our cue.” Sherlock muttered, crumpling the empty bag and stuffing it into the cup after draining the last gulp of now-cold coffee, tossing both in the direction of the nearest bin and kicking to his feet with a strange kind of grace. John chuckled and got up, holding the door for his rather mad flat-mate. Between their arrival at The Met and now, Sherlock had ditched his Belstaff and scarf for the same uniform John was wearing and the two of them blended in with the rest of the personnel. They headed for the interview-room, where they took Hope into custody and walked him to Holding. Handing him over to the custody sergeant was something John took more relief in than he should have. Their work was done, now it was time to let The Met do _their_ jobs.


End file.
